Can't Fight the Moonlight
by Acacia Carter
Summary: A life-changing disaster at work drives Neville Longbottom to seek aid from the only ally he thinks he can trust - Hermione Weasley.
1. Prologue

It was raining. Why was it always raining when Neville had to be outside in it? Could he get just one day on this assignment when it was just overcast?

He was grateful for the rain, however. It made it that much less likely that his quarry would be able to scent him.

If he had had any choice in the matter, he would have waited until the next morning. Being anywhere near a pack of werewolves on the full moon was terrifyingly dangerous folly. But they'd kidnapped children, and he hadn't tracked them down to their lair until night had fallen and the moon risen, and if he and Ballinger didn't get in there before the werewolves bit the children...

He shook his head. That did not bear thinking about. Nor did the notion that the children might end up being something other than a means for the werewolves to bolster their numbers – werewolves without a Wolfsbane potion were not known for their capacity for restraint once they had tasted blood.

"In there?" Noah Ballinger did not sound very confident. Neville didn't blame him; it was raining hard enough to fill their ears with a dull roar and visibility was terrible. They could be surrounded and not know it until it was far too late.

"In there." The plan seemed vastly inadequate now that they were here. Neville should have at least five more Aurors and a squad of Hit-Wizards with him, but there was no time - no time to go back and tell the Department that it wasn't just everyday child traffickers who had kidnapped the children, but the remnants of Fenrir's old pack. They had to act _now_, and this was the best that Neville could come up with.

He took a deep breath and stepped to the edge of the clearing, Ballinger close behind him, both their wands drawn and ready.

The encampment was empty, the fire pit in the middle of the circle of tents cold, its ashes sodden. "_Homonem revelio_," Neville whispered, not sure if it would work on magically expanded tents, but the gold outlines of five small humans shone through the rain in the furthest tent. They were lying down, and utterly still. Sleeping, or otherwise unconscious - the spell wouldn't have revealed them if they'd been dead. Neville allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief and motioned towards the tent. Ballinger nodded and began turning slowly on the spot, keeping an eye in all directions while Neville moved in the direction of the tent.

Over the sound of the pounding rain, Neville could hear a low growl. He froze.

The first growl was answered by another on the other side of the camp, and then another. Neville took a deep breath. "Shit."

"It's a trap!" Ballinger blurted, eyes wide - just before a powerful lupine form sprung from the shadows and closed its jaws around his throat, followed in quick succession by two more werewolves who fell upon Ballinger's suddenly very dead body.

Neville wheeled around just in time to get his wand aimed at the werewolf loping toward him from behind a tent. "_Stupefy!_" The red bolt found its target and the werewolf was thrown backwards, falling over to one side and lying motionless. Neville spun and managed to cast three more Stunning spells in quick succession, dropping the three werewolves by Ballinger's body.

He needed to get in, grab the children, and get out. The first werewolf he'd Stunned was already beginning to twitch. He ducked into the tent, suppressing the whip of panic that lashed against his chest. He could fall apart later. Right now he had to get those children. Once he got them to safety he could let his mind wander to other things, like the fact that his partner was now nothing more than a bloody mess of flesh and bone.

The children did not stir when he touched them; if he had to guess, they'd been charmed into magical sleep to keep them from running away. No matter. He hoisted the little blonde girl over his shoulder and held the brown-haired boy - barely more than a toddler - against his side like a Quaffle, ducking out of the tent to Apparate. He couldn't Apparate from within a magically expanded space, not if he wanted to keep all his organs where they were supposed to be.

This time of night on a Saturday the Apparition point at the Ministry was mostly deserted, but there were still enough people milling about the entry hall that a cry of surprise went up immediately as Neville deposited the two sleeping children on the floor.

"Get Robards," he barked at the closest wizard before turning on the spot to Apparate back.

The werewolf by the tent was labouring to regain its feet; Neville knocked it out again with another Stunning spell before dashing into the tent and back out with two more children.

It had hardly been fifteen seconds since he had Disapparated, but there were already Aurors flooding into the entry hall. "There's one more!" he gasped, thrusting one of the children into the arms of a witch as another wizard took the little boy from his shoulder. "I'll be right back! No time to explain!"

He was tired. Five Apparitions in less than a minute fatigued the mind and body a great deal. That was the only explanation for why Neville staggered and dropped to his knees outside the tent, and had to push himself back to his feet.

That tiny delay - that second and a half he spent on his knees while his head spun - was the only reason the werewolf was able to get close enough.

It was like a hot knife had stabbed into the back of his thigh. Pain smeared up his leg like fire and Neville tried to cry out, his breath stolen by the suddenness of it. He twisted, his muscles protesting in agony, and Stunned the werewolf as it opened its jaws for another bite. His eyes darted frantically about the encampment, but the other two werewolves were still motionless by Ballinger's body. He Stunned them again, just to be sure, and limped into the tent.

Shock had dulled the pain in his leg to a throb. Neville braced himself against a table, hissing through his teeth as sharp needles of pain prickled up his leg. He poked tenderly at the wound, and his fingers came away red.

Fuck. Fuck. It had broken the skin. _Fuck_.

No time to think about it now. Biting his lip, he conjured a bandage - it was probably sloppy as hell, since he couldn't see the back of his thigh - and cast a pain-numbing charm. Trembling, he tested his leg; it took his weight. Good enough for now.

Stumbling outside with the last child on his hip, he took the thirty seconds required to cast a Locus charm on the campsite before Disapparating. He'd need to send someone to retrieve Ballinger's body and deal with the werewolves, because he sure as hell wasn't in any condition to come back.

Once again, he went to his knees as he landed at the Apparition point in the Ministry. Images swam before his eyes before resolving into the crowd around him. "Parchment," he gasped, his stomach roiling. Someone thrust a piece before him and he tapped his wand on it; the Locus charm produced a map of the forest surrounding the campsite. "Ballinger's dead," he managed as Head Auror Robards heaved him to his feet. "And there are at least four werewolves there."

It took a great deal to surprise Robards, even when he had been roused from bed close to midnight on a Saturday. The Head Auror bobbed a single nod and pointed at four of the other Aurors nearby, who stepped forward into the Apparition point and Disapparated immediately after taking the map from Neville.

"Are you injured?"

Neville blinked and focused his eyes on his boss. Robards stared at him with an expression of gruff concern. Neville opened his mouth, then closed it again.

No one had pointed out his leg. If blood was soaking his trousers or cloak, it couldn't be seen on the all-black uniform of an Auror.

"No," he said, head spinning. "Just - just Apparition sickness." He swallowed as the lie tumbled from his mouth. "Permission to go home? I'll report back first thing in the morning. I can't think straight just now."

Robards eyed him appraisingly before nodding. "Granted. You look like hell. You'd better take Floo Powder. I expect you back by no later than eight o'clock."

"Yes, sir." Head spinning, Neville turned and made his way to one of the grates, grasping a handful of Floo Powder from the nearby bowl and tossing it into the flames.

The general tumult made it impossible for anyone to hear him, if anyone even cared to pay attention to him. Neville took a deep breath. "Fourteen Spindle Lane!" he commanded as he stepped into the emerald flames.

He hoped Hermione was still awake.


	2. Not Exactly A Lie

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, and Hermione looked up from her book. A quarter of midnight. She thumbed through what remained of the book, trying to judge how long it would take her to finish. It was only about twenty pages; it shouldn't take more than another half an hour.

She did feel slightly guilty, though. This was the third night in a row that Ron had pointedly asked if she was going to come to bed anytime soon. That had been two hours ago. She really should have - to catch some sleep before Rose woke up and started crying, if nothing else - but it was so rare that she got a moment to herself these days.

A sudden whooshing sound caused her to jump and look towards the kitchen. Her jaw dropped in surprise at the flickering green light - someone was Flooing in. At this hour? Who could possibly...

She snapped her book shut and grabbed her wand, moving carefully, a Stunning spell ready on her lips as sparks cascaded from the fireplace and a dark figure stumbled out. It straightened, and Hermione let her wand arm drop.

"Neville?" she asked incredulously, tucking her wand away. "What on earth?"

Looking around frantically, Neville took a lurching step forward and lost his balance, falling forward. Hermione gasped as he fell against her, staggering to avoid falling herself.

"Sorry," Neville said, shaking his head.

"What's the matter? What's wrong?" Hermione tried to help him into a chair but he shook his head.

"Can't sit. Is Ron awake?"

"No, but -"

"Good." He was definitely a bit wild around the eyes. "I need you to look at something for me."

"Neville, it's nearly midnight -"

"Please."

Had he not looked as though he'd just seen his own ghost and then run from it for hours, Hermione might have crossed her arms and demanded a full explanation right then and there. "All right," she said finally. "What is it?"

"I..." Neville raised a hand to his face, and Hermione was startled to see it was shaking madly. "I was on an assignment, and things got ugly, and I... I got bitten."

A horrible suspicion bloomed in Hermione's mind and her stomach plummeted. "By...?"

Neville took a deep, shuddering breath. "A werewolf." He raised his eyes to meet hers at her sharp gasp, and the pain and terror on his face was so raw it struck her like a physical blow. "God, Hermione, I've been bitten by a werewolf and - and - I can't go to St Mungo's, they'll tell the Ministry and I'll have to register under all these lists and I'll lose my job and -"

"Shhh," Hermione said, putting her arms around him. He was soaking wet and she felt the water seep into her shirt immediately, but she did not pull away. Her heart was racing and every thought she had was garbled by an undercurrent of incomprehensible babbling in her mind - Neville? Bitten? It was unthinkable, it couldn't be true, that sort of thing happened to other people. People she could care about from a safe distance, not friends. "It'll be okay. Hush."

"I don't know what to do." He sounded so helpless, so lost.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to sound businesslike, holding him out at arm's length. "Well, first things first. Let's get a look at it. We don't want it becoming infected." She winced at the word as soon as it came out of her mouth - of course, it was already infected.

Pale as he was, the slight flush in Neville's cheeks was starkly noticeable contrast. "It's, er, right up near my arse," he said haltingly.

Hermione took just a moment to be slightly charmed at how, even in a dire situation such as this, Neville could think of being shy. "Trousers off, then." The false cheer in her voice sounded tinny and thin, almost hysterical. Well, she was almost hysterical herself, so it made sense.

While Neville worked at his belt buckle, Hermione went to fetch the medical kit she kept under the sink, lighting the lamp over the kitchen table as she went. As an afterthought, she conjured a white sheet over the tabletop as well. If she was going to play Healer, she might as well do her best to keep things sterile.

When she turned, medical kit in hand, she could not suppress her gasp, and stopped just short of dropping the kit.

Neville was sprawled face down on the table, the sheet beneath him already translucent in places from the water seeping from his dripping clothes. He was resting his forehead on his forearms and though it wasn't cold in the kitchen, he was trembling as his exposed skin dried. Freed from the sodden trousers, the tawny golden hairs on his legs were drying one at a time and sticking out like pinfeathers. And up near the junction between his buttock and his leg... Hermione had seen bites of all sorts before, and she'd seen blood. She'd seen all manner of wounds, really, and even if she didn't like them, she had never actually been squeamish. But the four perfect puncture wounds on the back of Neville's leg... perhaps it was because she knew him, and she knew what the bite meant. That had to be it. That had to be why the nausea swelled up so strongly.

"Is it bad?" Neville went up on his elbows and tried to twist around to look. He winced at the movement.

"Don't move. It's... it's textbook, really." And it was. There was very little blood; it welled up in each of the wounds, but it was not gushing. The bite was surprisingly clean, likely due to the rain soaking his clothes. The flesh around each sickeningly perfect hole was stark white and Hermione knew without a doubt that if she touched it, it would be cold. She swallowed and stepped closer. She'd only ever seen illustrations of werewolf bites in books. "It's a clean wound," she said uselessly. "I think a bandage... and a disinfecting potion... yes."

They did not speak as Hermione dabbed a smoking disinfectant over the four punctures and affixed a gauze pad. She bit her lip the entire time, tears standing in her eyes that she wiped away with her sleeve before reaching out to touch Neville's shoulder. "Would you like me to numb it? It'll probably bruise badly."

Neville shook his head, raking a hand through his hair to push back his wet fringe. "It's already mostly numbed." He grimaced as he pushed himself up off the surface of the table, swivelling around to sit gingerly. He cleared his throat. "Could you hand me my trousers? I can't think what Ron would do if he came downstairs to find his wife alone with me in my boxers."

"Probably turn right back around and pretend it hadn't happened until he could get a grip on it." It was a pathetic attempt to get Neville to relax, and she could tell it hadn't worked. She turned her back as Neville pulled up his trousers and did not turn back around until she heard the clink of his belt buckle.

They stared at one another, and Hermione felt a lump grow in her throat at Neville's expression. She'd grown accustomed to the quiet confidence he'd acquired in his years as an Auror. Now, though, the scared boy she'd known from school looked out from behind those eyes, and he was looking at her - the girl who had always known what to do to fix things for him.

She didn't know what to do. Not now.

Telling him that wasn't an option. For lack of any other actions coming to mind, Hermione flicked her wand and his clothes dried immediately. Neville nodded once in thanks, his gaze falling to study his shoes. Feeling less than useless, she took another breath, her mind landing on the only other person she knew who might have an inkling of what to do next. "Maybe Bill -"

"No." It didn't seem possible, but Neville looked even more horrified as he looked back up. "I can't - no one else can know about this. My job, Hermione. And I'm sure there are things in the law books about... about werewolves inheriting. That they can't, because they're no longer considered pure-bloods. I could be struck from my family line - lose my home." His voice broke on the last word and he sank down into a chair. Either the wound was numbed well or his anguish was such that he ignored the physical pain.

"You don't know that the bite took," Hermione offered weakly. "Something like one in twenty bites don't -"

"It broke the skin." His voice wavered. "It's done. And..." He looked up plaintively. "What do I do?"

A thousand things he could do buzzed around in Hermione's head, and none of them were pleasant options. "I know you want to keep it a secret, Neville, and I understand, I do. Those laws are awful, that's why I've spent so much time trying to overturn them or amend them but the public support just isn't there. But..." she trailed off as Neville's face hardened.

"I came to you because you're the only one I can trust with this," he said quietly. "Because I know you know those laws inside out and backwards. You know how things would end up for me."

"I do. But, Neville, they're still the laws." The argument sounded petty and weak, and Neville's face falling into that expression of betrayal and abandonment wrenched at her heart. She looked down at her hands and took a breath. "I... will look up how to make a Wolfsbane potion," she said finally in a small voice. "That's the first place to start. And maybe we won't even need it. There's still a chance the bite didn't take."

Neville shook his head. "I'm... a werewolf now, Hermione." His voice sounded hollow and disbelieving as he said the words, and Hermione could see his spirits sink as he spoke the truth aloud for the first time. She'd never seen a person look so broken.

"Come here." She tugged on his upper arm until he stood and she embraced him again, squeezing him tight, offering what comfort she could. There was precious little else she could do.

* * *

Ron was not in bed when Hermione finally went upstairs. Puzzled, she stepped across the hallway to the nursery.

"There you are," she said as she spied her husband in the rocking chair with their daughter.

"She's nearly back asleep," he said in a low voice, looking down. "Didn't take long at all this time. Who were you talking to down there?"

The breath caught in Hermione's throat for a moment. "Neville stopped by."

Ron looked up in surprise. "Bit late, yeah? What did he want?"

"He had a terrible day at work." It was not exactly a lie. "He needed to talk to someone about it, and I was the first person who came to mind." Also not a lie.

"Ah." Ron seemed to be examining this information, then he gave a sort of half-shrug carefully engineered to not wake the baby. "I haven't seen him for a while. I don't think we've had him round since he broke up with Celeste, have we?"

"About that long, yes." Hermione reached over to take Rose from Ron and settle her back into the cot so Ron could stand.

"We should have him over for dinner sometime soon. Now that Rose is a bit less terrifying." Chuckling, he came to stand by Hermione at the side of the cot. "I've never seen anyone more awkward with a baby than Neville."

"You never saw yourself with James, then," Hermione shot back, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"James squirmed. I always thought I was going to drop him, and Harry thought it was hilarious." He pecked a kiss on the top of her head and then took her by the arm. "Come on. Let's get some sleep while we can. She'll be a banshee in about three hours."

Hermione nodded and allowed herself to be led back to the bedroom. She smiled inwardly as Ron openly ogled while she changed into pyjamas - he could make her feel appreciated even when she was tired and still felt a little out of sorts from carrying Rose.

He smelled like baby powder, she reflected distantly as he drew her close, already half-asleep. It still astonished her sometimes that they were parents. At times she still looked over her shoulder, waiting for the real adults to come in and take over the situation.

"Let's have him over Friday," Ron mumbled.

"Hmm?" Startled, Hermione craned her neck around.

"Neville. There's a girl I think he'd like at Twillfit and Tatting's across the way. I'll invite her too." The words were soft and slurred, a sure sign that Ron was talking on the edge of sleep.

Hermione patted his hand. "I'll think about it. It's only been three months since he and Celeste called it quits, though, and I think he's too distracted by... the thing at work... to really care about women." Again, not a lie. All these not-lies were starting to make her feel guilty.

Ron's only response was a soft snore. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her eyes and set her mind to working out what she would be spending tomorrow doing.

* * *

It was nearing four in the afternoon. Hermione checked the mirror to be sure Rose was still slumbering in her car seat behind her. A month ago, she would have been raising a fuss by now after a day of errands.

A knock on the passenger side window nearly scared Hermione out of her skin before she saw that it was Neville, meeting her as her message had requested. She unlocked the door and Neville slid in uncomfortably.

"How's the leg?" Hermione asked by way of greeting.

The answering shrug was not as nonchalant as it could have been. "Hurts. You're right, it bruised something fierce." Neville's voice sounded strained and oddly flat, and his eyes looked very tired and sunken. Hermione could not help but compare them to Remus Lupin's eyes at the peak of the Order of the Phoenix's activity. "You have something for me?"

Hermione nodded and fished a creamy sheet of parchment from her handbag. "It's a Healer's note for you. It certifies that you have been examined and diagnosed with Mongolian Pyrexia. A type of recurring fever," she added at Neville's bemused expression. "It's uncommon, but not particularly rare."

Neville took the parchment and read it, brow furrowing. "I'm not sure what this is for."

"It's common for the fever to flare up on the new moon and the full moon." She was a little proud of herself for chasing that illness down - it was the perfect justification. "It gives you an excuse for taking sick leave around those times - you'll just want to be sure you're taking a day on the new moon every once in a while as well."

The line between Neville's brows did not disappear as they flicked to the bottom of the parchment. "This is signed by Celeste."

"She owed me a favour," Hermione said apologetically. "I didn't tell her it was for you. I changed the name on it when I left."

"I'm surprised she agreed to write a medical certification that wasn't true." Neville tucked the paper into the breast pocket of his robe. "How is she?" His voice was perfectly neutral.

"Well enough, I think," Hermione replied blandly. She continued hurriedly before Neville could ask the inevitable "Did she ask after me?" - she hadn't. "And I have everything to make the potion except a place to brew it." She cleared her throat. "Home is a bad place for... obvious reasons." Ron usually left her potions alone, but he was always mad with curiosity over what she was brewing, and she did not want to lie to him any more than she absolutely had to.

Neville nodded. "My place, then."

Hermione shook her head. "You live too far away for me to drive, and I can't Floo with Rose until she's at least eighteen months old - and no Apparating until she's two. I'm more or less limited to driving distances until then."

The silence settled slowly over the car as they mused over a solution. "Could you leave her with Ron's mum?" Neville ventured.

"I thought about it," Hermione admitted. "Or with mine. I have been talking with Ron about returning to work part time, now that she's mostly on solid foods." She looked down at her hands. "It's a fiendishly difficult potion. It'll require at least two hours a day, at different times, and - oh!"

Neville raised an eyebrow at her, but she held up a hand to keep him quiet, an idea formulating in her mind. "There's a volunteer-run potions clinic at St Mungo's," she said breathlessly. "I saw the pamphlet for it today. And they provide Wolfsbane potion, for the witches and wizards who can't brew it themselves -"

"No, Hermione." The steel in Neville's voice was palpable. "I'm not going to waltz in to St Mungo's and queue for it with every other werewolf in Britain. I'd be spotted for certain."

"No," Hermione shook her head. "No, I'm saying I'd volunteer - they take donations of potions. That gives me a perfectly legitimate reason for me to be brewing it at home and coming into the city every day to drop off the day's doses, and while I'm here I can drop off yours." _And I wouldn't have to lie nearly as much,_ she did not add.

There was a pause, and then Neville sighed. "I can't say I like people knowing you're brewing it, but..."

"People know I'm brewing it anyway," Hermione said gently. "Some of the ingredients are Category Four Controlled Substances. I had to sign a receipt."

"Probably so a single werewolf doesn't go undiscovered by the Ministry." Neville's voice was bitter.

Hermione nodded sadly. "Probably. This really is the best way to go about it - it gives me a valid reason to be buying the ingredients, and there's no reason it should lead to you at all." She reached out to lay a hand on his forearm; startled, he jumped, looking up. "Sometimes the best way to hide is by doing everything right out in the open. Everyone knows that I was campaigning to have the anti-werewolf laws repealed before I left to have Rose; no one is going to think it odd that I'm spending my time brewing a Wolfsbane potion to donate to less fortunate witches and wizards who need it."

Eyes distant, Neville nodded. "You're right. You're always right." He patted her hand on his arm for a moment before looking forward and taking a deep breath. "Can... can I ask you a favour?"

"Of course." Behind them, Hermione could hear Rose start to fuss quietly. Neville glanced back uneasily.

"I - I don't want to impose. But..." He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it, and that was all it took to destroy the facade he'd obviously had in place all day. His lower lip trembled and he buried his face in his hands. In the same moment, Rose decided that she wanted to have a bit of a cry, as well.

Rose was nearly a year old; Hermione had had time to come to terms with the fact that her child crying caused her actual physical discomfort. But Neville dissembling in the passenger seat next to her struck her somewhere entirely different, and between the two she was completely overcome by a flood of emotion that immobilised her.

Neville recovered first, dragging his fingers down his face and shaking his head before looked over at Hermione. "Hey - don't be like that." He swallowed and took a deep breath, reaching out to rub her shoulder. "I'm going to be fine, I just..."

Hermione shook her head, gulping air in what was nearly a sob. "No, I - everything hit me all at once. That's all." Rose gave a particularly piercing shriek and Hermione twisted in her seat, then gave a small tearful laugh. "Ah, she just wants her dummy. It fell out and she can't reach it." Dummy restored to its proper place, Rose gave a final hiccough and stared back at the two of them with clear blue eyes, her flushed face the only testament to her earlier distress.

"If only it were all that easy," Neville said wistfully.

"Mmhm," Hermione agreed. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "You were asking a favour."

"Right. It's - never mind. It's nothing." Neville studied his hands. "I'm already asking too much."

"I get to decide how much is too much. Not you." She reached out again to squeeze his arm. "What can I do?"

Neville closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't want to be alone tonight. I... last night I was in shock, and I haven't had a chance to think at all today, but if I go home tonight to an empty house and have nothing but my thoughts..."

"You'll come for dinner, then," Hermione said decisively. "And you're not imposing in the least bit, Ron was saying just last night that it's been ages since we had you round. I'll make up the spare bedroom if you want to stay the night, too - Rose still wakes up every few hours, but we should be able to soundproof the room for you." It occurred to her that she was babbling and she stopped.

There was a moment of surprised silence before Neville smiled tremulously. "I don't deserve a friend like you," he said quietly.

"What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course you do." Realising this sounded more than slightly self-centred, Hermione coughed. "Did you want to come over straight away? I have to stop by the grocery on the way home but you can wait in the car, if you'd like."

"No, I'll Floo over later. I want to change out of my uniform first. But thank you." Neville looked up and locked eyes with Hermione. Their intensity startled her; Neville was not much one for lingering eye contact. "Thank you for everything."

Inexplicably bashful, Hermione dropped her eyes. "Anytime. Dinner's at half six."


	3. Honesty

Hermione had hoped she could stop by the joke shop on the way home to let Ron know they were having company for dinner, but Rose opted to have a complete meltdown in the grocery checkout that took nearly a half hour to assuage, by which time she was running fiercely late if she wanted to have dinner on the table by the time she'd told Neville. She made do with sending Pigwidgeon with a brief note.

Rose seemed content to continue playing with her wooden spoon in her high chair; Hermione sank into a chair at the kitchen table and tried not to think about how Neville had been sprawled across it the night before. Everything was set to go once people started arriving, which should be in about ten minutes - though if Ron knew what was good for him he'd be here earlier so she could go change into some different clothes before dinner. That technically gave her enough time to blanch the hedgehog quills she'd need for the Wolfsbane Potion, especially now that she didn't need to work in secret and wouldn't need to Vanish the lot if Ron walked in.

A few minutes later, she was rummaging through the drawer for her silver knife when she heard the whoosh of the fireplace behind her. "About time, love. Neville should be here any minute," she said, not looking around.

"That so?" Hermione gasped and spun around, blushing. Neville looked amused as he dusted soot from his sleeves. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be so early."

"No, no, it's all right, really. Ron's late. Sundays at the shop are always busy." Brushing her hands off for no reason, she shut the drawer. She could look for the knife later. "Please, have a seat. Would you like anything to drink? I hate to put food out before Ron gets home."

"A drink would be lovely. Can I help with anything while we wait?" Neville did not sit; Hermione wondered distantly if it was because of his bite.

"No, dinner's all ready to go. Wine? Water? Juice? Really, I've got just about everything."

"Wine, please." Wincing, Neville lowered himself into one of the chairs, then froze. "I am sitting here, right? I won't have to get up again? Only it hurts every time I stand up."

Hermione hid a smile. "That can be your chair." She Summoned three wine glasses from the cabinet and poured before sitting across from Neville at the table. Next to her, Rose tossed the wooden spoon to the floor. Neville stooped to pick it up, but Hermione shook her head.

"Don't do that unless you're keen to do it all night. It's her new favourite game, and she doesn't tire of it quickly." She picked up her wineglass and took a long sip as Neville straightened in his chair.

In the hallway, the sound of the front door opening prompted Hermione to stand quickly. "Odd, he doesn't usually Apparate home." Raising her voice, she called out. "Ron, we're in the kitchen."

"'We?'" There was the sound of Ron hanging out his cloak and walking down the hallway to the kitchen. "I didn't know we were having company."

"I sent Pig with a note," Hermione said, hurrying over to the dinner plates to lift the Stasis charm on them. "You must have crossed in the air. Neville's joined us tonight."

"Right," Ron said, nodding. He looked oddly at the glasses of wine on the table. "How long have you been here?" he asked, addressing Neville as he lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Only a few minutes. I didn't come straight from work." Neville sounded slightly defensive; Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye with bemusement.

"Didn't think you had to work Sundays anymore." Ron crossed his arms. Hermione did not know why he was taking this tone, but she did not like it.

Neville cleared his throat. "I wasn't supposed to, but I had to spend the day in post-incident meetings." He swallowed. "My partner got killed last night."

"What?" The suspicious edge to his voice softened immediately, and Ron leaned forward. Neville nodded, looking miserable; Hermione turned back toward the stove to hide her face. Neville had not mentioned that detail. She was supposed to already have known, of course, if that was what he had supposedly come to her last night for.

"Too quick for me to even process it. I couldn't have saved him, no one could have, but it was still my fault. I'm facing an inquiry." Neville's voice was thick with guilt.

"Blimey. I'm sorry. Hermione said you'd had a terrible day at work, but she didn't tell me it was that bad." Ron sounded genuinely concerned, the previous jealousy not even a ghost in his words.

Hermione kept her face carefully composed as she levitated three laden dinner plates to the table. Neville's eyes flickered to her for the barest of moments before he answered.

"I shouldn't have even told her, not until all the paperwork was done. But I..." Neville trailed off. Ron nodded sympathetically.

"Say no more. There isn't a soul in the world more comforting than Hermione." Picking up his fork, he gestured expansively toward his wife.

"I thought it best he not be alone tonight," Hermione cut in, seeing that Neville's eyes had suddenly begun shining with tears. "You don't mind if we put him up in the spare bedroom, do you?"

"Of course I don't. That's what spare rooms are for, aren't they?" Ron was now wholly focused on cutting his chicken, and Hermione touched eyes with Neville for a brief second. Neville gave a single nod before lowering his gaze to his own dinner.

For the first several minutes of the meal, the only conversation was between Hermione and Rose, as Hermione tried to convince her daughter that peas were for eating and not throwing. After the supply of peas had been exhausted - less than half of them on the floor or in her hair, a new record - Hermione turned to shoot a slightly exasperated grin at Neville. The words she had been about to say, however - something inane about the duality of food as both sustenance and toy - died on her lips.

The expression on Neville's face was pained beyond what she had ever expected to see; even after one of his numerous breakups, he'd never looked so anguished. It struck her that all the times before, there had still been some kind of hope for the future; even if it had not seemed like it at the time, Neville had known that there would be other girlfriends, and that he'd eventually find someone to share his life with. But now the notion of finding someone, of having a family, was absolutely unthinkable.

The expression was only on Neville's face for a split second before he arranged his features into something more neutral; it was so brief that had it not resonated so poignantly, Hermione may had imagined it.

"So your birthday's coming up," Ron said into the silence, oblivious to what he was shattering.

Blinking, Neville looked over, but Hermione beat him to the response. "And since when do you keep track of birthdays, Ron?" She tried to sound amused, and she must have done a good job, because Ron smirked.

"You know how Ginny carries on when we don't remember Harry's, and Neville's is the day before. Right?"

"Right," Neville said faintly, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "I, er... I'm thinking I'm not going to make a fuss about it this year. I'm not really feeling up to it."

Hermione dropped her fork. It bounced on the table and clattered to the floor. Ron glanced at her, but she waved him away, leaning over to retrieve it from the floor, grateful for the opportunity to hide her face.

She'd looked up when the next full moon was, of course - it had been one of the first things she'd done - but somehow she had not connected the date with anything else, though it had been naggingly familiar. As she straightened she looked at Neville, who offered a tiny wry half-smile that had no humour behind it, accompanied by a shrug.

Ron, however, had not shut up. "Come on, mate. Harry's going to be in Greece for his birthday this year, and I've got a lovely girl for you to meet."

The occasions on which Hermione wanted to throttle her husband were surprisingly few and far between, but this was definitely one of them. She contented herself with kicking him under the table and glaring at him.

Against all odds, Neville held up to this barrage well. "I'm sure she's charming, but I don't think I'm going to be too keen on dating for a while."

"Celeste was ages ago -" Ron started to point out before Hermione stomped on his foot. Hard.

"It's not just Celeste," Neville said sharply. His tone made Ron sit up a little straighter and shoot a guilty glance at Hermione. "It's... all these other things." He lowered his eyes to his plate. "I'm going to be horrible company for a long time, I think. No girl deserves the baggage I'd be inflicting on her."

Ron nodded sagely, as though he had any idea what Neville was actually talking about. Hermione couldn't very well kick him again without proper context, and so no one stopped him. "Something quiet, then? Night out at the pub? Or even a night in, we could play cards. Help get your mind of your troubles."

"I think I'd rather just everyone forget it's my birthday and leave me alone." The sharp tone was back, though more subdued than his earlier reply. Neville closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm strung a little tightly tonight. Being asked nine different ways how I could have kept my partner alive will do that."

For his part, Ron at least looked as though he'd finally cottoned on that Neville needed company more than conversation. He grunted something that sounded like an apology, turned his eyes to his dinner, and didn't say another word for the rest of the evening.

"I didn't realise how disastrous dinner would be," Hermione said in a low voice to Neville some time later as she spread fresh linens over the guest bed. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget how oblivious Ron is capable of being."

"Don't worry about it," Neville replied. "I shared a room with him for six years. I know exactly how oblivious he can be." He sighed, his eyes distant. "Apologise to him again for me. I really didn't mean to be so gruff."

"He was being pushy and inconsiderate." Hermione snapped a sheet out vigorously. "He deserved more than what you gave him. I'll be having a sharp word with him tonight."

"Don't." Neville sounded tired. "Forget it. Please. The last thing I want to do is start drama. I have half a mind to just leave right now."

"You'll do no such thing." Bed made, Hermione turned to face Neville, who quickly straightened and smoothed his face from the expression of intense worry he'd had before. "No," she said sharply, surprising herself. She put one hand on either of Neville's shoulders and shook him slightly. "You already have to pretend that you're fine around everyone else. You don't have to pretend with me."

"But I am fine," he protested. She pinned him with a look that always made Ron shift uncomfortably; it had a similar effect on Neville.

"Be honest with me." She was surprised at how much like a plea it sounded. "If you're scared, be scared. You have every right to be. You need to have at least one person you can let your guard down around." She squeezed his shoulders once and then stepped back. He looked astonished, and was doing nothing to hide it. Blushing for no reason she could ascertain, she gestured at the bed. "It's made up. There's an extra blanket in the cupboard if you need one. What time do you need to be awake tomorrow?"

"I have the day off tomorrow." Neville's voice sounded oddly faint. "But I'll probably wake up on my own around seven."

Hermione nodded. "I'll see to breakfast, then. Don't," she interrupted when Neville opened his mouth to protest, "I'll be doing it up anyway, since Ron leaves at a quarter to seven." A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You have to learn to let someone take care of you from time to time."

She hadn't expected the comment to cause Neville's face to fall. "Don't see why. I'm not going to have anyone taking care of me from here on out," he said bitterly. His eyes softened. "Except you, I guess."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said feebly, but there didn't seem to be much more to say. Nothing that wouldn't be an empty platitude. She cleared her throat and headed for the door. "Good night, Neville."

"Same goes for you too, you know."

Hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder. "How do you mean?"

Neville looked as though he wasn't sure how to translate his thoughts into words. "The honesty. It's got to go both ways. Don't pretend you're okay when you're not."

Hermione nodded once, somewhat startled. "Of course."

Looking as though a weight had been lifted from his chest, Neville let out a long breath and smiled tremulously. "Good night."

* * *

It had been too easy.

Hermione wrinkled her brow, studying the simmering cauldron in front of her carefully. After all the warnings, all the notes in the book about how difficult this potion was, she'd expected it to give her trouble. She'd expected to need to do it over, which was why she'd made double what she needed of the base solution. But in the two weeks she'd spent brewing it, adding this ingredient one day, stirring it exactly seven times anticlockwise the next, everything had fallen together perfectly. She had to have missed a step, but the flask she'd decanted was the exact shade of fuchsia the illustration in the book was, and as it cooled it darkened to the same red-orange the book promised.

Well, if she'd done something wrong, St Mungo's would catch it. She decanted five more flasks, leaving the rest on a low simmer in the cauldron to use over the next several days. The cooled samples would need to be reheated and the ground nettle thorns added just before the potion was taken, but St Mungo's would take care of that when the flasks were dispensed - and she'd be able to do the same to Neville's dose in his office.

After leaving Rose with Molly for the afternoon - Rose not entirely sure about her mother leaving her behind, but easily distracted by a game of Tickle Tickle with Nana - Hermione made her way to St Mungo's.

"Five doses? Definitely a help, this is a tricky potion," the Healer at the clinic said appreciatively. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Do you need a receipt?"

"No, that's fine, but - could you test them for me?" The butterflies in Hermione's stomach would be satisfied with nothing less. "Only I'd hate to think I left potions that can't be used, and it _is_ a tricky potion..." she trailed off.

"Not to worry, love," the Healer said reassuringly. "We'll test them before we dispense them. If you're bringing more doses tomorrow, I'll let you know if you need to change anything."

Hermione swallowed. That didn't help matters _today_. "Are - are you certain you can't test them now? If I've done something wrong, I have extra base solution, and then I'll know how I can fix tomorrow's."

The Healer's smile went stale in the way of a person who has been put upon and can't possibly complain about it. "They look exactly as they're supposed to at this stage," she replied smoothly, "and if we were to test one, we would have to administer the dose immediately. If anything is amiss, I'll be sure to let you know tomorrow." There was an air of finality to her words, and Hermione could tell that pushing further would be futile.

As she signed in at the visitor's desk at the Ministry, though, that argument seemed to grow weaker and weaker. With every step she took from the lift to the Auror offices, the flask in her handbag became more and more useless until she wanted to turn on her heel and flee back home where she could do it all again, correctly this time. She was so distracted that she walked right by the row of cubicles she needed and would have kept going had Neville not poked his head out and called her name.

"What?" She stopped and spun around.

"I said, I'm in here." The expression on Neville's face was strange, as though he could not remember what a smile should look like.

"Right." Hermione shook her head and laughed nervously as she turned. "I've never been to your office," she pointed out as she stepped through the opening.

"No, but the name plate is right there." Neville gestured as he returned to his chair. "It's a good thing I was on the lookout for you, else you'd have gone on wandering forever."

He did not look well. Hermione swallowed as she took in the blue shadows beneath his eyes, the grey tone to his skin, the way he fumbled with his quill as he set it aside. "How are you doing?"

The shrug was too casual. "All right." He licked his lips and glanced around significantly. "This fever, you know. Takes a lot out of me."

Hermione nodded. "You ought to take a day off and get some rest." The statement wasn't just for the benefit of anyone who might be overhearing their conversation; he really did look as though he'd been getting bad sleep and too little to eat.

"If it gets any worse I will. Full moon's in a week, it's supposed to be terrible then." Neville's voice caught slightly, and he folded his hands together in front of him on his desk. Hermione was certain it was to stop them shaking. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? You haven't come to mother me, I'm sure."

"Actually, I have." She drew the flask from her handbag and set it on the desk between them. Neville looked like he'd stopped breathing, his eyes darting between Hermione and the flask. "It needs some reheating," she continued, surprised at how steady and light her voice was, "but if you drink it down it might take care of some of your more unpleasant symptoms."

Neville licked his lips again. It was a nervous tic that he had retained from his school years; it made him terrible at bluffing in card games. "I'm willing to try just about anything at this point," he said finally.

"I thought you might be." The tempered glass of the flask was strong enough to withstand a Bluebell flame for the requisite thirty seconds; she'd checked. "Do you have a cup or something for me to pour this into?" She pulled out the stopper to the flask and gripped it firmly by the neck, surprised to find that her fingers were trembling.

Wordlessly, Neville shoved a chipped white mug forward. Hermione nodded and pointed her wand at the flask.

At the first lick of blue flame, the potion inside began swirling lazily, tendrils of pale violet twining through the rusty orange as it heated. Hermione counted the seconds in her head, forcing herself to keep the timing steady - she didn't know how disastrous a second either way would be, but it was not a risk she was willing to accept.

The potion was translucent violet the whole way through once she ticked off thirty seconds, and she tipped the flask into the mug. "Wait a moment," she said to Neville as he reached out to take the mug, "there's one more thing." From her handbag she drew a paper twist of the nettle thorns; once sprinkled into the mug the potion shimmered to a vivid teal and began smoking.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Neville asked in a low voice.

Hermione nodded, her stomach still clenched in anxiety. "Everything's gone exactly as the recipe said it should. The hospital couldn't test it first, though." She looked up seriously. "We're going into this blind."

The smoke wafted in the air current as Neville picked up the mug. "I trust you," he said quietly. With a wry twist of his lips he held the mug up in a toast. "Cheers."

He did not sip it like tea or coffee. Hermione watched, heart pounding, as he drained the entire dose in one long drink, Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He made a face and a noise of distaste, forcefully setting down the mug on the desk. "Looks a lot prettier than it tastes, I'll tell you that much."

"You are so brave." She hadn't even realised she'd said it aloud until Neville raised an eyebrow at her.

"Not much else I can do, is there?" He replied quietly. "The world's not going to stop just because I curl up and ignore it."

"No, this - all of this -" Hermione gestured helplessly, words failing her. Had this happened to her, she wouldn't be able to put on a brave face and come in to work, or quaff a Wolfsbane potion like a flagon of ale and make jokes about it.

Neville seemed to understand what she wasn't saying. "I know," he said simply. "And I'm not nearly as brave as you think I am. But that's a topic for another time." _And place_, his tone heavily implied.

Hermione recalled that Neville's office was far from private and she nodded. "Right. I'll bring another for you tomorrow, then? If you're not feeling better, that is." Appearances. They had to keep up the all-important appearances.

"Sounds great. Try to make it taste a little less like arse." Neville actually winked, and the sheepish grin that followed it almost looked as though it belonged on his face rather than something he had read about in a book that he had decided to try. It was infectious, and it felt so good to smile in return that Hermione felt positively flooded with relief.

"See you tomorrow, then."

Hermione was fairly sure she wasn't supposed to see the way Neville dropped his head into his hands after she'd left. Half of her wanted to go back; the other half knew she couldn't do anything in so public a place. She had to trust that he could handle it.

* * *

The potion had been fine, of course; the Healer at St Mungo's had gone so far as to praise her when she dropped off five more flasks the next day. "Not a single unbound precipitate to cause a headache," she had beamed. "You might consider applying for a position at the Apothecary."

Hermione had fumbled through her thanks for the compliment, glad she had Rose on her hip to give her an excuse for leaving. For the remainder of the week, she'd made sure to have Rose with her to expedite her exit so that she could get to the Ministry with Neville's dose.

Seven days passed quickly; a tight knot of anxiety settled between her shoulders as the full moon crept closer. Neville continued to put up a bold front at the office, but Hermione could see how he'd chewed his fingernails down past the quick, how it took him a split second longer to respond to what she was saying, as though his mind was a thousand miles away.

And then it was the thirtieth.

The tiny circle that denoted a full moon taunted her from the calendar on the wall. She felt vaguely sick to her stomach and no matter how much water she sipped, she could not seem to chase the dry sourness from her mouth.

The Healer at St Mungo's seemed strained herself; no doubt she was also under the immense pressure of knowing she was responsible for the well-being of all the witches and wizards who would be coming in that day. She still had time for a warm smile for Hermione, however.

"Where's your little girl?" she asked as she took the flasks from Hermione.

"With her Nana today," Hermione responded, trying to inject some sort of cheeriness into her words. "I have too many errands to do for driving, and she's still too young for me to Apparate with her."

The Healer smiled congenially and nodded her farewell as Hermione waved and turned to go.

Hermione had been to the Longbottom estate a few times before; there had been birthday parties there, and the memorial for Neville's grandmother had been held there a few years ago. The dusty July day leant a warmth to the curls of the cast-iron gates; the rosebushes lining the walk were positively flourishing despite the heat. Even after school had ended, Neville had taken pride in his way with plants, and he maintained the gardens on the estates with pleasure. Hermione was glad to see that he'd had something to keep him busy in the past month.

She had hardly knocked on the door when it was yanked open abruptly. She jumped back slightly, startled, and then when her eyes adjusted to the darker interior she gasped.

"I look that bad, eh?" There was very little mirth in the question. Neville raked a hand through his hair, which stood wildly on end as though he'd given up on trying to make it behave. His skin was ashen and he moved as though every muscle ached.

"Yes," she said simply, at a loss for anything else to say. She stepped into the house at his gesture, looking around as though this were her first time here to avoid staring at him.

"It feels exactly like the worst hangover you've ever had," Neville said dryly as he closed the door behind her. "Complete with the pounding headache and the sour stomach."

Hermione swallowed and drew the flask from her bag. "You said this sometimes takes the edge off. Maybe it'll do the trick today, as well."

"I'd take poison right now," Neville responded with a note of desperation. "It'd be an improvement."

"It can't be that bad," Hermione started to say uselessly before Neville began to pace in the hallway.

"It's exactly that bad," he said, running a hand over his unshaven face. "It's worse. I'm - God, Hermione, I'm going to -" He looked at her, and she could see the panic building behind his eyes. "In about seven hours' time, I'm - I can't even say it."

Hermione reached out to grab his upper arm and squeezed. "Let me prepare this for you. Can I use your kitchen?"

Neville bobbed a single nod and leaned against a wall, closing his eyes and kneading his temples. Feeling more helpless than she had in a long time, Hermione slipped into the kitchen to finish the dose of potion.

He hadn't moved when she emerged a minute later with the smoking cup. He took it without looking at her and drained it with slow, steady gulps. When he was done, he stared into the cup as though the answers to the universe could be found within.

She stood there for what felt like an age, watching him stare into the cup, his chest heaving as though he was struggling for breath. Finally she tentatively reached out to take the cup. "Neville?" She asked softly.

His gaze darted upward, eyes focusing as he reached out to grasp her hand. "Please don't go," he croaked.

She blinked. "What?"

"Don't go. Don't... don't leave me alone. Not tonight. I can't... I can't do this alone." He swallowed. "Please."

Breathless, Hermione nodded. "I'll be right back," she said faintly.

Neville's grip on her hand tightened. "No," he said, panic tingeing his voice. "No, you can't -"

"If I'm going to be gone all night, I need to tell Ron," Hermione said gently. "I promise, I'll come back. I won't make you go through this by yourself." She firmly pried Neville's fingers from their grip. His hand fell limply to his side.

"Don't go," he whispered. "I can't..."

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. "Moonrise is at half nine," she said, backing away slowly. "I'll be back long before then. I swear. I swear it by my name."

She fled before he could see her tears, and probably before she could see his.

* * *

"A fertility ritual?" Ron wrinkled his nose. "No one does ritual magic anymore."

"Yes, well, we're going to try it," Hermione said casually. "It's done at the full moon and the new moon, for obvious reasons, and as I'm a mother I lend the ritual a certain amount of... matronliness, I suppose?" She gave a helpless little laugh that had only a slight tinge of hysteria. "That sounds horrible, doesn't it?"

"Makes you sound like a cow," Ron agreed. "And you'll be gone all night?"

"Ritual magic is very intensive. No wands for focus, you know - all that magic just flying everywhere. When it's done I imagine we'll all need a kip. Anyway, I only just agreed - I haven't told your mother yet. Rose is with her. Pick her up on your way home, will you? I've left you the car, it's parked outside the Leaky." She resisted the urge to check her watch. It had seemed to take forever to drive into London, and the entire time the only thing she could think about was Neville falling into a downward spiral of panic.

"All right, I suppose," he said dubiously. "I still haven't taken the test, you know."

"You drive fine. No one is going to pull you over and you can just Confound anyone who tries." She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but the damage had been done; Ron's eyebrows flew up in surprise.

"You must really like this girl, if you're advocating my breaking the law," he said suspiciously.

"Forget I said it. Have George drive you. I'm... I have a headache, and I'm nervous, and I have so much research to do before tonight." It was a pathetic excuse. She didn't blame Ron at all for not believing one iota of it.

"Have fun," he said finally, and she nearly fell over in surprise. "I mean it. Enjoy yourself. You like trying new things." Ron looked over her shoulder at a customer who had wandered into the shop. "Good afternoon! All right there?" he called. To Hermione, "I'll see you in the morning." He leaned forward to kiss her briefly before hurrying over to the customer.

Hermione stood stupidly for a moment before woodenly leaving the shop.

Somehow, she hadn't expected her first intentional lie to her husband to be this easy.


	4. Moonrise

She didn't even have to knock.

As the _CRACK_ of her Apparition echoed against the door, it was wrenched open. "You came back." Neville sounded astounded.

"I told you I would." Hermione slid her bag off her shoulder; she'd packed several books and it was heavy.

"I know, but..." The wind was knocked out of her as Neville bowled into her, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. "I didn't know you would. Not for certain."

"Okay, Neville, I need to breathe." Despite how dire the situation was, she couldn't help but smile.

"No, you don't." He released her anyway. The relief on his face was so plain that it made Hermione's heart twinge. "Thank you."

"Of course." She closed the door quietly behind her and looked up, uncertain, as she lowered her bag to the floor. "So now what?"

Neville glanced at his watch. "We wait." His momentary exuberance visibly drained from him as he looked up from his wrist. "Five more hours."

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat and reached out to lightly touch his arm. "Come on. I'll make some tea. And we can go over some things I've read."

The house at the Longbottom estate was not overly large, but it was still plagued by too few windows and not enough light, especially in the late afternoon in the summer. Hermione lit lamps with her wand as she led Neville by the hand into the kitchen like a sleepy child.

"Sit down. Where's your kettle?" She deposited him into a kitchen chair and spied the kettle on the stove.

They'd been sipping their tea for some time, the silence only broken by the quiet sound of the burner of the stove cooling, when Neville put his cup down forcefully on the table and folded his hands. "So. You said you've read some things."

Setting down her cup as well, Hermione nodded. "I have. What have you found?"

"Not much." He shrugged. "Had to make do with what I already had - old Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks, mostly. A few things that were in the house library. Ordering a load of books about werewolves from Flourish and Blotts isn't exactly keeping a low profile."

"You should have said something." She ought to have realised that Neville wouldn't have access to the resources she did. "I have shelves of books at home, from when I was researching the laws. Even a few diaries."

"Yes, well, what more can there really be?" The bitterness in Neville's voice was thick enough to cut with a knife. "Moon comes up, I go through a terrifically painful transformation, and then we see if the Wolfsbane potion even works on me." The light in his eyes was flickering between anger and terror. "You did know that's a possibility, right? That it won't even work?"

Hermione licked her lips and looked down into her tea. "There's... not a lot of data on it. It's hypothesised that it's more due to noncompliance with the potion regimen than..." She trailed off as she looked up just enough to see Neville's hand gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white. This wasn't what he needed to hear. "It'll work. It'll be fine. You'll be fine."

"You can't know that." Bitterness had begun to give way to panic, and Hermione had the distinct feeling that the two emotions had been ebbing and flowing within him with wild abandon the entire day.

"We're going to operate on the assumption that it will." Very deliberately, she reached out and grasped Neville's hand in both of hers, willing him to calmness. He flinched when she caught his gaze, but he didn't look away. Instead, he licked his lips and swallowed, taking a deep breath through his nose. "You are one of the bravest people I know, Neville. You're going to be okay. You can do this."

"No I'm not." He tore his eyes away from hers and studied the table as though it was something fascinating he'd never seen before.

Hermione blinked. "What? Of course you're going to be okay. I won't let -"

"No. I'm not brave. Not half as brave as you think I am." Neville closed his eyes, nearly grimacing. "If something has to be done and I'm the only one who can do it, then I do it. That's not bravery. This?" He gestured vaguely at himself. "This sitting around, just waiting for something terrible to start happening? I feel like the biggest coward who ever drew breath. I haven't even been able to sleep."

"You'd have to be dead to not be terrified," Hermione said bluntly. "And last I checked, you were still very much alive. Therefore, you are perfectly justified."

It was a very small consolation, but it summoned a ghost of a smile from Neville anyway. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I? I just... have to go through with it."

"You do." Hermione squeezed his hand once more. "But you won't be alone."

"I will be if the potion doesn't work." Neville's voice had taken on a hard cast. Hermione opened her mouth in protest, but Neville held up a hand. "No. If it looks like it's not working, you get out. Forget your promises." A lopsided, sardonic grin twisted his lips. "I'm used to pretty girls breaking promises. They usually don't have reasons as good as that."

"I'm not leaving. If it didn't work, I'll Stun you into oblivion." Hermione crossed her arms and fixed him with her best "this is how it is going to be" glare. "I'm not going to leave you alone. Even if it doesn't work... I can't bear the thought of you waking up by yourself."

"I do it every morning. It's not that bad." Back to bitter, and slightly flippant. Hermione immediately recognised the sneaky downward spiral that would send him into the dark depression that was his constant companion following every breakup he'd ever had. She really couldn't think of a worse state of mind he could be in at this particular moment, and she cast about wildly for a change of subject.

"Have you chosen a room?"

Neville blinked. "A room?"

It appeared the change of subject had been successful. "For your... transformation."

"Oh." Neville shook his head. "To be honest, I've been trying as hard as I can to not think about it at all."

Hermione nodded. She'd been expecting that answer. "I read a diary that recommended a familiar place. A comforting place."

Neville nodded slowly. "My old bedroom. That's probably the only comforting room in this entire house."

"Why's that?" If she could keep him talking, he might be able to calm down.

"I changed bedrooms when I was seventeen." If the muscles in his jaw were anything to go by, her plan was working; he seemed to be relaxing, even if it was only slightly. "And then again when my parents died." He gave a mirthless little laugh. "Not like there's a lack of bedrooms in this place. It was easier to change rooms and go on with life than continue in the one I'd built memories in." He stared into empty space for a moment. "I've changed rooms seven times. Or more." That humourless smile was back. "Once for each girlfriend. Never got to touch the master bedroom, of course. I was saving that." He swallowed, looking down at his hands. "Thought I'd be sharing it with Celeste, to be honest. But that went the way of everything else, in the end."

Hermione suppressed a sigh. If he was determined to talk about it, there was very little she'd be able to do. Perhaps she could get him past it before the true ordeal began. "I didn't know... did they move in here?"

An eyebrow crooked at the question. "What? No. Well, as good as, I suppose. They all had a drawer, at least."

The significance was lost on her. "A drawer?"

"A drawer. You know, for a change of clothes or two, a razor, shampoo... the sorts of things you leave at a boyfriend's." That tiny, self-mocking smile again. "Celeste practically had a wardrobe. She rarely went home." His eyes looked very distant as they studied the saucer and teacup on the table. "I really thought she was it, you know."

"We all did," Hermione admitted.

"Well. It's good to know it wasn't just my bad judgement." Neville winced. "That sounded far meaner than I meant it."

"I know what you meant." Without thinking, she continued with the usual comforting words she offered at this point in this type of conversation. "You'll find someone, Neville. I know you will."

It dawned on her what she'd said in the same instant that Neville looked up from the table, the incredulity plain on his face. "Right. Because I'm really going to be looking, now."

"That isn't what I -"

"Celeste was my chance. And I drove her away, just like everyone else. She'd be here, if I still had any right to her. She'd have understood." Neville rose from the table in a violent motion that made Hermione jump. "But I don't have anyone now. And I never will - you think I'd actually try and ask someone to put up with this?"

"You've got me." Hermione pushed herself to her feet, ignoring that it did not exactly put her at eye level with Neville. "I may not be girlfriend material, but I'm your friend. And I will damn well see you through this, and if I have to take out an advert for you, I will see to it that you don't spend your life alone."

Neville stared for a moment. Going over the words in her head, Hermione started to see how empty they really were. She lowered herself back into her chair and took a deep breath. "Your old bedroom, you said. That sounds like a good place."

There was a long moment of frozen time before Neville nodded slowly and sank back into his chair. "It's familiar. And if everything goes right, there's a bed for you to sleep in. I don't expect you to stay up all night with me," he added hurriedly. "Once it's clear that nothing's gone wrong... well, there's no reason we shouldn't get some sleep, if we can."

"I suppose that makes sense," Hermione finally agreed. Somehow the thought of sleeping tonight seemed wildly inappropriate.

"No. None of this makes sense. But it's all we've got." Neville shook his head, an expression of disbelief furrowing his brows. "I... still can't wrap my head around it. It's mental."

"It's in four hours," Hermione reminded him softly.

"I know." Neville shuddered. "Trust me. I know."

* * *

The four hours passed in a smear of time that seemed to both linger sadistically and rush past in a horrible blur that neither of them could halt. They tried to come up with a plan, just in case everything went wrong, but the farthest they could get was "Stun me, and keep Stunning me, until the sun comes up." It was not a pleasant notion, and neither Hermione nor Neville seemed keen to dwell upon it. The energy it took to keep the conversation steered away from what would be happening in three hours time - two hours - one hour - was baffling.

Dinner was a simple plate of sandwiches that Hermione had to cajole Neville into eating. A dull ache had settled in behind Hermione's left eye by the time the clock in the hall chimed nine. Neville visibly tensed, pausing mid-sentence, as they counted the chimes, then shook his head and tried to continue what he had been saying.

Hermione let him go on for some time - a rambling, disconnected story about how he had discovered that his ex-girlfriend Faith was an Animagus - before she gently placed a hand on his arm. "Neville," she said softly. He flinched as though she'd shouted. "We'd better get ourselves situated. It's a quarter after."

Neville took a shuddering breath, then gave a sickly little nod. "Right." What little colour he'd regained in the last hour or so drained from his face as he stood. "It's on the third floor."

Stepping into the bedroom of Neville's boyhood was like stepping into some sort of surreal time capsule. There could be absolutely no denying to whom this room had belonged, so much so that Hermione had the odd sensation of being an intruder even with Neville right next to her. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six sat upon the desk, and she could see grades One through Five on the bookshelf next to it, along with all the other textbooks and spellbooks they'd used their first six years of school. A toy chest lay at the foot of the bed. A crystal bowl on the windowsill looked as though it had once held a fat toad.

Next to her, Neville let out his breath in a soft whoosh. "I haven't been in here in years." He moved past her to pick up a small wooden model dragon on a shelf; it breathed a few sparks at him half-heartedly, its magic long bled from it by time and disuse. "It feels very odd."

Hermione didn't say anything, afraid to shatter the spell of nostalgia that had stolen over Neville like a blanket. This was the calmest she'd seen him in a month, despite all her best efforts. If she could keep him like this...

But the peace was brief. The haunted look returned to Neville's eyes as he carefully placed the wooden dragon back onto the shelf. "What -?" His voice caught in his throat and he swallowed. "What time is it?" Either he'd forgotten the watch he wore, or he was simply trying to fill the silence.

Hermione did not want know which it was. She checked her own watch, her heart beginning to quicken. "Nine twenty-nine," she said. She drew a breath and looked up.

"And moonrise is nine thirty-eight." It was not a question. Hermione had little doubt that the exact minute of his first full moon had been indelibly burned into his brain. She nodded anyway.

He looked around the room as though suddenly lost and not sure how he had got here. "So nine minutes. Less than nine minutes. I -" He lifted his hands to his face and sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. "I can't do this. God, Hermione, I can't do this."

Words seemed absolutely useless. Hermione crossed the room and sat down next to him, putting her arms around him and drawing him into what she hoped was a comforting embrace. "You can get through this. I know you can."

"I don't have a choice, I know, but I can't - I -" He turned and leaned into Hermione, resting his forehead on her shoulder. His breathing was ragged, as though he was trying very hard not to cry.

"You can let go," she whispered. She didn't know why she said it; it had simply jumped to the front of her mind and had been on her lips before she could consider it. It had apparently been the exact right thing to say, however, because Neville's shoulders slumped and began to shake with great sobs that brought stinging tears into her own eyes.

Several minutes slipped by before Neville's breathing grew more regular and he sat up, wiping his eyes and checking his watch. "Five." If Hermione had to go by the sound of his voice alone, she'd have never been able to tell he'd been crying. She was no stranger to Neville's abrupt mood swings, but they still astounded her sometimes.

She cleared her throat. "You'll want to take the watch off," she said haltingly. There was no hiding her own tears, not like he could, but there was no point in bothering.

Neville nodded. "Right." He undid the clasp and dropped the watch to the bedside table, adding his plain gold band - his father's wedding ring, Hermione surmised - and his wand. Done with that, he rose from the bed and went to stand in the middle of the empty space between it and the door.

"It'll be easier without your clothes, as well," Hermione stated matter-of-factly.

Despite the look of abject terror in his eyes, Neville raised an eyebrow. "If I had a sickle for every time a girl told me that -"

"Neville!" Hermione threw a pillow at him, but it was so good to see him laugh, however fleeting it was. He tossed the pillow back at her and tugged the hem of his tee shirt over his head, tossing her that as well.

"I'll want that when I'm done," he said in a tone so light and lackadaisical that it was obviously faked. Hermione threw him a long-suffering look and folded it neatly, placing it on the foot of the bed.

She looked up just in time for him to chuck his jeans in her face, as well. "Are you twelve?" she demanded indignantly, but there was too much of a smile in her voice for it to sound serious.

"Not for a long time," Neville answered in that same forced glib tone as he toed off his socks. "And when I was twelve, I didn't strip for girls just because they told me to."

"That's twice in the last month you've done it," Hermione pointed out as she placed the folded jeans atop the shirt, determined to keep him in a good mood for as long as she could.

"That you know of. I think I'll keep the boxers on, if that's not too much of a disappointment."

"I'll live. Though the boxers might not. You'll have a tail soon."

Neville's devil-may-care expression slipped the tiniest bit at that. "There is that. And I like this pair." He slipped his thumbs under the elastic and then hesitated, shooting a brief glance at Hermione. Despite the pallor of his skin, his cheeks flushed as he bit his lip.

"There's the shy Neville I know." Hermione couldn't help the smile. "You had me going there for a minute. I was wondering where he'd gone off to." She waved a hand. "Keep them on, if you're uncomfortable. I'll mend them."

Neville shook his head sombrely, all hint of a smile gone from his face. "I've been more naked than this all evening."

It took a moment before Hermione realised he was speaking metaphorically, and in that moment the timer she had set on her watch began to chime.

They both froze, Neville with his thumbs still hooked over the waistband of his boxers. All semblance of forced calm slipped away, his eyes widening as reality came crashing back down around them.

The window of the bedroom was facing the wrong way to see the moon rise, and the trees surrounding the estate would have made it impossible to see the horizon anyway, but Hermione still found herself twisting to look at the night sky outside. The sky was a dark cobalt, sunset only half an hour gone. The trees stood against it in black silhouettes that could barely be seen through her reflection in the glass. Behind her in the reflection, she could see Neville - divested of his boxers - standing with his hands at his sides, eyes closed and brows furrowed, every muscle tensed. He looked like a man in the gallows waiting for the headsman's axe.

The seconds ticked by agonisingly slowly, each one marked with a thudding heartbeat that echoed in her ears. Her mind raced. Either she had got the latitude wrong in her moonrise calculations, or the bite hadn't taken. The former was much more likely than the latter, but a tiny spark of hope still ignited deep in her chest as she turned back around.

More seconds and more heartbeats, and Neville opened his eyes hesitantly. "Time?" he whispered.

Hermione checked her watch. "Nearly nine thirty-nine."

She could tell by the look in his eye that the same hope had sparked within him as well. He took a breath, the hint of a smile beginning at the corners of his mouth, when the breath turned into a wheezing gasp and his eyes immediately lost their focus.

Hermione's breath caught in her chest as Neville crumpled to his knees on the floor, his face pulled into a rictus of what could only be terrible pain. "Don't resist it!" she said helplessly, rising to her feet to - to do what? Help him? How could she possibly help him? "Just let it happen, Neville! It'll be done soon, I promise!" She went to kneel down next to him but he threw an arm out, knocking her to the side; whether it had been intentional or merely a thrash of pain, Hermione could not tell, but she backed away until she was pressed against the wall, watching in something very close to sheer terror.

The horrible guttural moans from between his clenched teeth made her want to cover her ears and screw her eyes shut tightly; it took everything she had to keep her hands in tight fists at her side. "Don't fight it, Neville... it won't last as long..." She couldn't tell if she was screaming or whispering it; Neville would likely have paid as little attention either way.

It had to be her imagination supplying the sound of tortured bones, stretching and shrinking to accommodate the new shape forcing itself upon Neville. He was on his hands and knees now, back to Hermione, and the way his flesh rippled unnaturally across his body made a wave of nausea writhe inside her stomach. There was a crack, accompanied by a cry of pain, as Neville's hips somehow shifted and Hermione nearly retched as she realised that she had not been imagining the sounds at all.

She could not help herself. She drew her knees to her chest, clasped her hands over her ears, and shut her eyes as tightly as she could, tears streaming down her face.

It was impossible for her to tell how long she sat like that, jaw clenched tightly enough for it to seize and cramp painfully, but a low growl penetrated the ringing in her ears and her heart seemed to stop. Trembling, she dropped her hands and lifted her head just in time to see the sinewy wolfish form in front of her lift its muzzle and let out a howl that chilled her to her core.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She tried again. "Neville?"

The werewolf's head snapped around and her breath froze in her chest. The eyes - they were the same dark hazel as Neville's, but the shape was all wrong, and they caught the light and glowed in an unnervingly feral way. Millions of years of evolution had engrained fear of eyes like that into her, and panic suffused her until her fingertips tingled with it.

He took a step toward her, a prowling predator's step, and she threw one hand up in front of her face, her other hand going for her wand. Holding it in front of her, she very slowly pushed herself up against the wall until she was standing.

The werewolf continued to stare at her, unimpressed, and took another step forwards, punctuated with a low growl like the one it had emitted before. This one did not seem to stop. It continued, rumbling in the room and resonating through her chest, and despite her resolve the hand holding her wand began to shake. She gripped it more tightly.

"Neville, I'm sorry," she whispered. She took a deep breath and was about to call out "Stupefy!" when the growl cut off sharply into a high-pitched whine.

It was as though the werewolf had been replaced with an entirely different animal. Its ears twisted back and lay flat against its head, the hackles on the shoulders went down, and its tail was suddenly tucked between its legs. The eyes, narrow and bloodthirsty only a moment before, were wide with terror.

Hermione let her wand drop a tiny amount. "Neville?" she whispered again. "Is it you?"

Neville's answering whine was heart-wrenching. Despite being the size of a full-grown man, he looked for all the world like a lost puppy.

Hermione knelt down and opened her arms. Neville nearly knocked her over as he launched into her, trembling against her chest as she wrapped her arms around him. She realised after a moment that she was absently stroking his fur and she stopped, confused and slightly embarrassed.

"Well," she said after a time, when he had stopped trembling quite so violently, "at least you're a _pretty_ werewolf."

Neville pulled back and the expression on his face must have been the wolfish equivalent of "Seriously?" Hermione hadn't known that canine eyebrows could do that, and the effect was so comical that she couldn't stop the laugh from bubbling up inside her. She was willing to admit that the laugh was an equal mixture of relief and hysteria along with amusement, and Neville cocking his head to one side in bemusement did not help matters.

"Right." Hermione took a deep breath, wiping her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand. "Now that we know I'm completely mental... are you all right?"

Wolf shoulders were not made for shrugging, so Neville's favourite mechanism of response had been stolen from him. It would appear that he was going to make do with lying down, head on his paws, ears flat against his skull. Any urge to laugh evaporated and Hermione reached out to lay a hand on his head before realising how wildly inappropriate that was. Neville was still human inside that body, and treating him like a dog was no doubt insulting to the highest degree. Ignoring the absurdity of it, she grasped one of his front paws instead.

"The moon doesn't set until nearly seven," she said haltingly. "Can you hang on that long?"

Neville's answering nod was accompanied by a soft whine. It was a sound that made her heart ache. She squeezed Neville's hand - paw - whatever - and stood, despite how wobbly her knees had become.

Now that adrenaline was no longer streaming through her veins like cold water, the warm cloudiness of exhaustion had moved in to take its place. The notion of sleeping that had seemed so absurd earlier now sounded like a very good idea.

"If you're half as tired as I am, we can sleep through most of it," she said as she sat down on the edge of the bed. It was a narrow bed, no wider than they'd had in the dormitories at school, but despite its obvious decade or more of disuse the blankets were crisp and the linens smelled freshly laundered. Hermione set her lips in a tight line - Neville himself didn't retain the services of a house-elf, but he certainly didn't turn away his great-uncle's when she came every few days out of a sense of duty to the family's heir. Well, there was no sense in getting worked up about it right now; they'd had words about it in the past, and a one-sided argument was absolutely pointless.

To her surprise, Neville shook his head before rising to his feet and beginning to pace restlessly. There was not a great deal of room for him to do so, and his agitation was growing palpable. He looked... trapped.

And he _was_ trapped, Hermione realised. Trapped in a form that wasn't his own, that he had been forced into by a curse older than written history. And there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. Hermione was suddenly extremely grateful that, aside from the dark windows, there were no mirrors in the room. It was highly likely that Neville wouldn't have been able to face that. Not tonight. Maybe he'd known that, when he suggested this room.

He was whimpering now, pacing more quickly, and Hermione swallowed. What he clearly needed, very badly, was a distraction. That was supposed to be her entire purpose for being here, wasn't it? And yet as she cast about in her mind for something she could do, every query came up empty - until, as her eyes followed Neville's pacing, they fell on the battered spine of a book on the bottom shelf of his bookcase, and an idea clicked into place.

She Summoned the book to her, and as she opened the tattered cover she smiled slightly.

_To Neville  
Happy 1st birthday  
With love from Gran_

If the velveteen texture of the edges of the pages were anything to go by, this book had been handled frequently. Possibly every night for years. She flipped through the pages for a moment, her eyes catching on familiar words and phrases. They were not the original stories, not like the stories in the book Dumbledore had left her. This book was a volume meant for small children, with the more sinister elements of the morality tales left out.

She flipped to the first story and began to read aloud.

"'There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours*'."

Neville froze in midstep and turned his head to look at her in an expression that Hermione translated as disbelief.

Heart racing, Hermione jerked her head in a beckoning gesture. "Well, come over here then. I'm not going to shout across the room."

Hesitantly, almost timidly, Neville padded over to the bed and sat on his haunches. Even sitting on the floor, the tips of his ears still came up almost to her shoulders as she sat cross-legged on the bed. She swallowed and very determinedly set her mind aside from just how large his jaws were: this was Neville, and Neville would not hurt her.

"'There was once a kindly old wizard'," she began again, "'who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours*'."

She did not stop when, some time later, Neville yawned and lowered his head to his front paws, but she did check her watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Not quite eight hours to go.

Her throat was dry and raw by the time she reached the midpoint of the book at half past midnight. With a glance down at the deeply sleeping canine form beside the bed, she sighed in exhaustion and put the book to the side. She'd had every intention of pulling a blanket over her, but as she curled up on top of the bedding she felt so weary that she decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Her eyes closed and she fell into the heavy, thick sleep of one who has experienced far too much in too little time, and whose mind desperately needed time to process it all.

* * *

It was a combination of several things that woke her up.

The first was the gentle chiming and vibration of her watch, which she had set to go off at twenty minutes until seven. She did not need to glance at it to know it had been sounding off for some time.

The second was the daylight in the window. Morning was well underway, the light still blue-tinged and sparkling with the new day, the sky in the west still with a hint of night about the edges. Dawn had been nearly an hour and a half ago.

And the third was the thing that caused Hermione to sit bolt upright, very suddenly fully awake: a series of very inhuman sounds and yelps of pain from the floor beside her bed.

In an instant, she was kneeling on the floor next to the writhing, still-wolfish Neville. "It's okay, it's okay. You made it. You're almost there, Neville. Just hold on, you're nearly there."

There was a strangled sound almost like a human moan and then, all at once, with a great wrenching lurch and a twisting arch of his back, Neville - the human Neville - was crouching on the floor. His bare skin was covered with a sheen of sweat and he was trembling fiercely, his breathing heavy and gasping and coming too quickly for it to be doing him any real good. He stared straight ahead of him into empty space, his pupils dilated wide and unseeing.

Hermione deftly grabbed one of the folded blankets from the foot of the bed and draped it around his shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, but he allowed himself to be eased back into a sitting position, his back against the side of the bed.

Hesitantly, Hermione brushed the dishevelled fringe from his forehead and looked him in the eyes. "Neville? Are you all right?"

He seemed to come back to himself very slightly at the question, and shook his head in a minute movement, closing his eyes. His face crumpled and his breathing, which had been slowing, sped up again.

"I can't," he whispered, bowing his head forward. "I can't do that every month. I just - I can't."

There was little she could do except draw him to her in a crushing embrace. "You can. You made it through the night and you're still here. You're so strong, Neville. You can do it."

"I can't go through that, month after month, forever..." a sob escaped him and Hermione felt almost as though her heart were breaking in two.

"You can. And I'll be here with you. For every single one."

There was a startled pause. "I can't possibly ask that of you."

"I know you can't." Hermione drew back to look him in his red-rimmed, too-tired eyes. "That's why I'm offering it, because I know you'd never ask." She pulled the blanket more tightly around him. "I will be here. Every full moon. You do not have to do this alone."

"Why?" He sounded truly baffled.

Hermione placed one hand on each shoulder and looked intently into his eyes. "Because you're the first person I ever spoke to on the first train to Hogwarts. Even if we've grown apart since school ended, you are my oldest friend. You were my friend back before I had anyone, and I never repaid that. And because you deserve to have someone next to you through this." She took hold of one shaking hand in both of hers. "I can't be everything you need. But I'll be everything I can be."

Neville stared for a moment before jerkily bringing her hands up to his mouth and kissing one. "Thank you." It was just barely a whisper given voice, hoarse with emotion and bone-weariness.

Hermione didn't answer except with a wavering smile. She pulled her hands back and reached to the foot of the bed again, pulling down the clothes she'd so carefully folded hours ago. "You'll want these. I'm going to go downstairs and make some breakfast. All right?" Neville nodded, eyes closed. Impulsively, she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead before standing up. "You can do this. You're not alone."

"How did you know?"

The question made Hermione pause and turn. "How did I know what?"

Neville gestured at the book on the bedside table, the blanket slipping from one shoulder as he did so. "That book. Sometimes... when I've got nothing else to do and I'm in a bad way... I can remember her reading it to me. My mum." He swallowed hard. "Just her voice. I can't make out words. I don't even know if I'm actually remembering or if I've made it all up."

Neville couldn't have been more than one and a half when his parents had been driven mad. The likelihood that it was an actual memory was slim to none, Hermione knew. But she wasn't going to say that for all the gold in China. "It was obviously the most-loved book on that shelf," she said instead. "I took a chance."

Neville nodded, taking a deep breath. "Thank you. Again. For... everything."

"Clothes, dear." She hoped her smile was encouraging. "You mustn't tempt me so." That earned a snorting laugh and she turned and left.

Once in the kitchen, she took a moment to lean over the table and let slip her strong and capable facade. Just for a moment. She'd just committed herself to at least one day a month in which she'd be lying to Ron, to Molly, to everyone about where she was going and what she was doing. It was the right thing to do, she knew, and she couldn't have done anything less. She wouldn't have allowed herself to do anything less.

Perhaps in a few months' time, Neville would be willing to let Ron in on the secret. That would make everything so much easier, and if she had to, she knew several very good spells that would convince her occasionally-idiotic husband to hold his tongue.

But for now, there was porridge and toast to be made. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and began rummaging through cupboards to find what she needed.

*_Tales of Beedle the Bard, JKR_


	5. A New Skill Set

Neville hated ties.

He owned exactly three: one for his dress uniform, one for his everyday uniform, and one that Felicity had given him for Christmas one year. They'd only been dating for a month and she hadn't known what else to get him, and he hadn't known what to get her. Even though everyone told them they had been perfect together, they had never really seemed to get to know one another any better, despite trying for thirteen months.

That tie was blue. It was a nice tie, as ties went. His eyes lingered on it for a moment before he reached out and took the everyday uniform tie down from its place on the hanger.

Normally he didn't even wear a tie, if he could get away with it. Today, however, he was going to need every bit of credibility he could muster.

The office of the Head Auror was at the end of a long line of cubicles, with a secretary by the door who reminded Neville of a hawk. She nodded at him as he approached and made a notation on the day's agenda in front of her before waving him through the door.

"Good morning, Auror Longbottom," Robards said with a slightly distracted air as he reached for a folder. Neville blinked as his mind registered the second figure in the room in a chair by Robards' desk. "If you have no objections, I'd like Auror Potter present for this meeting." No explanation, but Harry's presence was a silent testament to the levels of importance to which he'd risen in the past several years. Back when they'd been partners, before Harry's rapid ascension through the ranks of the Aurors, he'd have given a slightly embarrassed grin as Neville's eyes swept over him. Now, however, he was all stoic professionalism, thumbing through a folder identical to the one Robards was opening in front of him.

Neville found his voice. "Not at all. Good morning." He sat when Robards indicated the chair in front of the desk, folding his hands in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting.

"We'll start with the good news, because I can tell you're nervous: you are losing neither position nor rank within the Aurors." Robards opened the file to the first page, dropping his eyes for a moment as though to allow Neville a chance to wipe the look of intense relief from his face before meeting his gaze again. "The inquiry has concluded that your actions and orders were prudent for the situation that arose, and Ballinger's death was not something that could have been prevented once events began to unfold."

Robards cleared his throat. "However. The wisdom of instigating those events is under question. The urgency of the situation is understood, but not your decision to go into the camp alone without proper reinforcements. That was reckless behaviour that cost the life of your partner. We need you to understand the gravity of what transpired."

The muscles in Neville's jaw began to ache and he consciously tried to unclench his teeth as he bobbed a quick nod.

"We've read your statement that you judged the situation to be too pressing to come back to Headquarters and request backup. Your reasoning was sound, even if the conclusion was not. Therefore, it has been determined that you are to be placed on probation for three months, at which point we'll do another evaluation. You'll be doing no field work during that time. Do you have any objections?"

"No, sir." It was better than he'd hoped for.

Robards looked at him over the top rim of his glasses. "You refused the paid bereavement that we offered. Why?"

The question caught Neville off-guard. He coughed to cover the pause. "I, ah... I preferred to stay busy. Sitting around at home wasn't going to make me feel any better about it."

"I want you to see the staff therapist. Working yourself to illness isn't going to help you either. Which reminds me: are you feeling better?" Robards raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I've never heard of - what was it?"

"Mongolian Pyrexia." It took every ounce of self-awareness to not lick his lips. He knew he did it whenever he was about to tell a lie or reveal something else uncomfortable, and that was exactly the sort of thing Robards would pick up on. "Not rare, but not your garden-variety chronic fever. It's tied fairly closely to the moon phases, as I discovered to my dismay." He tried for a rueful half-smile, one he'd practised in the mirror for hours until he'd almost convinced himself that an exotic fever was all that ailed him. "Luckily, if it doesn't kill you the first time, you recover almost immediately. And then you just have to deal with the relapses."

Robards nodded thoughtfully. "You have a great deal of sick leave saved up. Use it."

"I will, sir."

"And I want to hear that you've made an appointment with the therapist before the week is out." His eyes narrowed. "I've been watching you, and you've been shambling about like a zombie for the past month. That's not healthy."

Neville swallowed. There was no possible way he could tell Robards that it wasn't internalised grief that made him terse and withdrawn; that in fact he barely had an extra thought to spare for Ballinger, guilty as it made him feel at times. "Yes, sir."

"Good, good." Robards flicked a glance to Harry. "Potter, I think you had something to suggest?"

Harry pushed up his glasses and nodded. "Longbottom," he began, and Neville could not get over how strange it felt to have Harry address him by his surname as though they were strangers, "One of the assailants in the kidnapping case has agreed to talk."

"That's... good?" All the werewolves they had been able to apprehend turned out to be little more than teenagers, nearly as feral as the werewolves they had been during the attack. Social workers had been called in, but the last he had heard they had not been successful in any aspect.

"Yes. It's very good. Except he only wants to talk to, and I quote, 'the other Auror what was there.'" Harry looked up, the question plain in his eyes. "As he was unconscious when the rest of the Aurors came to apprehend them all, I'm going to assume that means you."

It was incredible how quickly Neville's mouth went dry. "I... you know I'm terrible at interrogations."

"You don't need to interrogate him," Harry said. "Just let him know he can talk to us. That we need to know where the actual masterminds of the operation have got off to." There was the tiniest twitch of a smile. "You said you wanted to keep yourself busy. This seems like the perfect opportunity."

Neville let out his breath in a doubtful whoosh. "I'll do my best. Sir," he added belatedly.

Harry nodded, and for a moment he almost looked like the Harry Neville had once known, before the wife and the children and the promotions. The resemblance was fleeting; Neville blinked and Harry was back to being Auror Potter, distant and professional. Neville didn't know why this bothered him. "I'll have a room set up for you. Have some tea and be down there in forty minutes."

* * *

Neville set two flimsy paper cups of hot tea down on the table in front of him, one closer to the dark-haired youth. The youth stared at the cup for a moment before hesitantly reaching out to grab it and sniff at it.

"It's tea," Neville said mildly. "I thought I'd share."

"I know it's tea." His accent was Northern, very much like Neville's own, and the sullen veneer almost succeeded in covering the boy's anxiety.

"We were worried none of you knew how to talk." Neville took a sip from his cup, keeping his eyes on the youth.

"Some of 'em don't. Never had to. We was smacked if we did, half the time." He did not raise his eyes to meet Neville's.

"So they raised you." He was answered with a terse nod. "Do you know how long you were with them?"

Doubt clouded the youth's eyes. "What... what day is it?" he asked hesitantly.

"It's the fourth of August."

The youth nodded, brow furrowing. "And... what year?"

His voice sounded so small. Neville glanced helplessly at the false wall, behind which the social workers were doubtless taking down every word. "It's 2007."

The youth put down his cup to count on his fingers. "Seven?"

"Years?" The youth nodded. "And all that time, you never had any contact with anyone else?"

"They tole us - they tole us no one would want to talk with us, that we was outside civ'lisation, that if we tried we'd be locked up and hung and all done."

_Whoever They are, they weren't far off the mark_. "Evan," Neville said gently. They'd gone through old kidnapping records and found out who these children were. Most of them had been taken when they were barely out of diapers; Evan had been nine years old. The boy jerked at the name. "I need you to understand this. Probably everything that they told you about us is a lie. You're safe here. And we need your help to find them, so that they can answer for what they've done to you and your friends."

"I'm sorry I bit you." Evan's eyes flicked up to Neville's for the barest of moments.

Neville's blood ran cold, ears suddenly ringing. No. He hadn't just said that with a dozen social workers, and probably Robards and Harry, on the other side of the false wall.

He put on the most false smile he'd ever worn. "You didn't. It got my cloak and uniform. I had to replace them, but there was no lasting harm." He swallowed. "I'm sorry you spent a month thinking you did. That must have been terrible."

There was a dreadful silence, and then Evan roughly shoved the cup of tea away, upsetting it. The dark amber liquid ran in rivulets over the edge of the table. "I don't want to talk no more."

"Okay." Neville rose immediately. The social workers had told him that once Evan was done, they were done. Evan was a particularly sensitive case; the age at which he'd been taken meant they might actually be able to rehabilitate him, given enough time. But they couldn't force him.

Neville did not stop in the room on the other side of the false wall. He went directly to the lavatory and locked the door behind him. After confirming he was alone, he loosened his tie with a shaking finger and levered himself back against the wall, taking great gulps of air.

A tiny voice in the back of his head said, very calmly, _the kid is a liability_. Over and over, until the word lost all meaning except the visceral gut reaction of panic. _Liability, liability, liability._ Once with every pounding heartbeat. _Liability, liability, liability_.

He couldn't stay in here. Robards and Harry would be looking for him soon. He straightened, adjusted his tie, and splashed some water on his face. "Nothing is wrong," he told his reflection firmly. "Nothing."

The face that looked back at him was so earnest and trustworthy, he almost believed it. Almost.

* * *

It was seven o'clock. Most of the cubicles were empty by now; only those assigned to night shift still toiled at their desks. Neville took a breath and stood, walking slowly toward the only office door that still had light spilling from under it.

"Come in," came the response, once Neville had rapped his knuckles against the door.

"You're here late," Neville said by way of greeting, quietly closing the door behind him.

Harry shrugged as he put his quill to the side. "Lot of paperwork to catch up on. You're here late, too."

There was a brief ache in Neville's chest; he ignored it as he sat down. "I don't have anyone to go home to. You do."

Harry's smile was slightly twisted. "That's the thing about being on assignment abroad for several months: everyone learns to get on without you." He sat back in his chair and stretched. "In a couple days, everything will be back to normal, but for right now... well." He shook his head, then looked down at his desk. "I was sorry to hear about you and Celeste."

Neville gave a single humourless laugh. "Most everyone was sorry to hear about me and Celeste. Especially the ones who lost the office pool."

Harry at least had the grace to look embarrassed. "Ah. You, uh. You found out about that."

Neville raised an eyebrow. "I'm an Auror. The day I can't ferret out an office rumour about me is the day I hand in my uniform." He sighed before composing his face into something resembling friendly. "What did you have? Eight months? Ten? A whole year?" His joking tone still tasted amazingly bitter.

"I didn't." Harry looked up steadily, pushing up his glasses. "I don't speculate on your serial monogamy for my personal amusement."

"Serial monogamy." The laugh was still bitter, but had a surprising amount of mirth to it. "Haven't heard that term before." Neville shook his head, smiling. "At any rate, I think I'm done with that. For a while. Focusing on something else will do me good, I think. Which is why I'm here."

It was Harry's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Go on."

Neville took a breath. "Sir," he said, and despite the few minutes of small talk, the transition from friendly to formal didn't feel odd. "I'd like permission to go down and meet with Evan Daniels. Off the record. Tonight."

Harry's other eyebrow shot up to join the one he'd raised in question. "The werewolf you were talking with today? Off the record?" He shook his head. "No. The situation is too fragile, and all the social workers have gone home already anyway."

"That's the thing," Neville pressed. "I've been doing some reading, and I don't think we're approaching it correctly." Harry stayed silent, and Neville took this as an invitation to continue. "Yes, we've got some of the best child psychologists saying that we need to give him space, let him dictate the terms on which we talk to him. That he's in shock, and we need to reintegrate him into human society. But that's just it, he's not a - he's been so long outside human society that he _needs_ reintegrating. He doesn't think like a human. Not completely. He thinks like a werewolf, and he doesn't separate his werewolf half from his human half." He paused, but Harry still didn't say anything. "And we're going about it all wrong. We're being too submissive to him. I think I know what to do to get him to talk to us, but if any of the social workers see me, I'd be hexed."

"Thus, off the record. After they've gone home." Harry drummed his fingers on the table. His eyes were unfocused, contemplative. "And you think he'll listen to you, if you head down there and go all 'alpha male' on him?"

Neville flinched at the choice of words. "Yes." He didn't bother asking how Harry had worked out his plan; there was a reason he'd ascended the ranks so rapidly.

"Why?"

Neville licked his lips before he could stop himself. "Call it a hunch."

Harry drummed his fingers on the table for a moment more before apparently realising he was doing so and stopping. His unfocused gaze was on Neville, now, his chin resting on his fist. "Okay," he said suddenly. "You get ten minutes, off the record." Pulling a small square of parchment towards him, he picked up his quill and began scribbling. "But so help me, if you hurt him, you'll be getting a lot more than just probation." He thrust the parchment square at Neville. "Give that to the guards. They'll leave you be."

Neville reached out to take it, but Harry did not let it go. "I'm trusting your judgement here," Harry said in a low voice, his eyes intense. "I'm guessing you came to me instead of Robards because you knew he wouldn't."

A slick, crawling feeling of guilt wormed its way through Neville's chest. "Something like that." He nearly sighed with relief as Harry let the parchment go. "You're not going to regret this."

"Don't give me a reason to."

* * *

In what was possibly an injustice, the werewolf teenagers were being kept in some of the maximum-security holding cells at the Ministry. They were far more comfortable than Azkaban - these cells were intended for political criminals or high-ranking officials with enough clout to stay out of actual prison - but still not the place Neville would have thought appropriate for seven children between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.

Each cell had a bed, a chair, and a magic window. A narrow door led to the lavatory. They were sparse, clean, and comfortable enough - Neville had seen hospital rooms that were far more oppressive - but they could not be mistaken for anything but what they were.

Evan was sitting on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, staring off into space. He glanced Neville's way as the door opened before returning his gaze to the opposite wall.

"I don't wanna talk to you," he said sullenly.

Neville steeled himself. "Too bad. Because I want to talk to you." Authoritative. Unyielding. Maybe he could do this with words alone.

Evan swivelled around until his back was to Neville and did not say anything. No, apparently this was going to be all body language, as he'd feared it would be.

When the original idea had hatched in Neville's mind at around four in the afternoon, it had involved somewhat vague, intimidating gestures and threats. There wasn't anything really resembling a plan. Perhaps it was the tiny splinter of fear lodged deep in his stomach that this boy could be his undoing, or perhaps it was the smouldering anger at his situation. It could have been a combination of both. Whatever it was, before Neville realised what he was doing he reached out, grasped the back of Evan's shirt, and yanked him backwards onto the floor in one deft, forceful movement.

Evan landed with a solid thud on his back on the thin carpet, his breath whooshing out as it was knocked from his lungs at the impact. Before the boy had a chance to do anything, Neville found himself kneeling, one knee pressed firmly against Evan's chest, not pressing with any weight but holding him down inexorably. Evan's eyes were wide as he gasped for breath, but he did not struggle.

"You're going to cooperate," was all Neville said. Very slowly, Evan nodded, dropping his eyes to Neville's shoulder. "I need you to answer their questions. You're mine now. And I will see to your safety. Do you understand?" Neville's heart was thudding too loudly for him to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but a tiny part of his mind sat up and took wary notice. Neville ignored it.

"Why did you lie?" Evan's voice was small, contrite - the smug sullenness with which Neville had been greeted was gone as though it had never been.

"How do you know I lied?" Neville kept his eyes on Evan's face, though the youth did not look back up and when he spoke, he appeared to be addressing Neville's collarbone.

"I tasted blood. It wasn't the other bloke's; that was dead blood. And... and you know when someone's Pack. You _know_. No one else 'round here has that feeling, but you do." Evan raised his eyes a fraction. He wasn't making eye contact, but it was clear he was looking to Neville for an indication of what to do next. Of course. One didn't simply assume they had permission to make eye contact with the alpha male. The tiny part of Neville's mind started jabbering at him, and he shushed it.

He felt slightly ill as he pushed himself back to sit on his heels in a crouch. Evan did not make any movements to get off his back. "You're saying you can... sense it. That I'm a werewolf."

Evan nodded. "I made you Pack, din't I? 'Course I can sense it."

Neville stood up slowly. "Get up. Back on the bed. Did I hurt you?"

"No." In a quiet voice, as Evan folded himself into a sitting position on the bed, he repeated, "Why did you lie?"

The door was locked and warded. No one could hear, and there were no surveillance spells that he could detect. "Because if anyone finds out what I am, I can't protect you. If I'm going to help you, it has to stay a secret. You can't tell anyone."

Evan looked up in disbelief. "You... want to help me? But I... I killed. And I bit you."

"No," Neville said, very firmly. He reached out to grasp Evan's chin and bring the youth's eyes up to meet his own. "You didn't. You weren't even there. You were in a corner of a monster's mind, a prisoner, while it acted. You had absolutely no control. It wasn't you who bit me and it wasn't you who killed my partner. Do you understand?"

"No," Evan whispered, eyes wide. He squirmed out of Neville's grip and burrowed his face into his arms. "It's me, it's just a part of me, it's a part of all of us inside and Pack let it out because we got to - the wolf's _us_, it's -"

"Don't believe a word of what your old leader taught you." It difficult to hide the anger in his voice. "Evan, I know. I _know _what it's like. I know _exactly _what it's like. _You did nothing wrong_."

Evan looked doubtful, but he nodded. His face was still hidden.

"I need you to cooperate with the social workers. For me. Can you do that?"

Another quiet nod.

"Except don't tell anyone... what I am. You can tell them you thought you bit me. And I'll keep saying that you didn't actually get me."

No nod this time.

"Evan?"

"All right," Evan said emotionlessly. "I won't."

Neville nodded thoughtfully and turned to go. As his hand rested on the doorknob, however, he paused.

"Out of curiosity... if it had been anyone but me who came in here tonight... would you have...?"

"No." Evan had raised his head and was studying his knuckles intently.

"Why not?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. "Because I'd win."

Neville's heart gave a little lurch. "What do you mean, win?"

"In a fight. I could beat them. Can't beat you." A short moment slipped past as Evan's brows furrowed. "Yet."

* * *

"You did what?" Neville could feel the vibrations of Hermione mincing the arrowroot cease.

"Pulled him off the bed. Knelt over him. Held him down. And he just... gave up. Didn't even struggle." Neville pushed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes, his elbows resting on Hermione's kitchen table. "I don't know why I did it. I just - that's not what I do. I don't threaten. I don't - I don't _loom_."

Hermione began mincing the arrowroot again, but her motions were slower. Thoughtful. "What is it you said to him to start with? Do you remember?"

Neville shook his head. "That's the thing. I don't. I... something about how I'd protect him. That he was..." A chill brushed across his skin as he replayed the scene in his mind. "That he was mine now."

There was the metallic sound of Hermione laying the knife on the cutting board. "Neville," she said in a hushed voice. He knew that voice. She was going to tell him something he already knew and really, really did not want to hear.

"I know." Even though his eyes were closed and behind his hands, he shut them tighter. "Sounds exactly like how wolves assert dominance."

Her answering silence said more than the words she had likely been about to say. The chill that had crept across him before plunged into his spine and made him shiver.

"I thought it was supposed to leave me alone. I thought it'd only change me on the full moon. That I'd still be..."

"You are still you." She sounded shaken. Neville could feel a gentle caress on his forearm. He shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair.

"I don't threaten scared, underfed teenagers. I don't knock them to the floor until it's clear they're going to obey me. Care to explain why I've just come from doing that exact thing, if I'm still me?" His voice broke on the last word.

"Keep your voice down," Hermione said, shooting a glance upward. "It's hard enough to get her to sleep on the best of nights, and she's been contrary all day. And Ron…"

Neville bit off a retort and took a deep breath. "Hermione," he said softly, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "The only solace I had was that I'd only have to be a monster once a month. And it's apparently not true."

"Of course it is." Hermione reached out to take one of his hands. "The fact that you're bothered by this... that in itself proves it." She squeezed, and Neville closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation and not on the low-level panic that had settled in just under his ribs. "You said he can sense when he's around other werewolves. Maybe you can too. Maybe you were reacting to that and you didn't know it."

It made sense. He'd come to the same conclusion. It was no more comforting now, even coming from Hermione. "That still means that even when it's not the full moon - it still has control over me. In some aspect. I'm not me anymore, I'm being influenced by my lovely other half, constantly, and I can't even tell when."

"Stop it." The grip Hermione had on his hand was nearly painful. "Just stop it. You are still Neville. You're still gentle and kind and far too romantic for your own good. You like plants and expensive whisky and writing poetry - and no, I won't tell anyone about the poetry. You take two sugars and no milk in your tea and you abhor kippers. You have reading glasses but you hide them because you're embarrassed, and nothing - _nothing _- is going to change the core of who you are."

Neville stared openly, looking straight at her for the first time this evening. "You... how did you know about the glasses?"

Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose in demonstration. "You're red there. I think you're allergic to your nose pads. Ask your optician to change them out." It apparently occurred to her how hard she was squeezing his hand, because the vice-like grip suddenly relaxed. "You're still you. You just... gained a new skill set. That's all." Her half-smile looked strained, but it still erased some of the worry lines about her eyes.

She was trying so hard. Neville felt gratitude well up inside him with such force that it made the end of his nose go numb with the threat of tears.

"I should go home. It's late, and I think you're about to be tagged in on the 'getting the baby to sleep' game." He could hear footfalls on the staircase.

Hermione sighed. "Sometimes, there are problems only boobs will solve." The expression that this wrought on Neville's face must have been amusing, because she laughed - a real laugh - and reached out to tousle his hair. "I rest my case: you're still you. Still bashful as ever, no matter how world-weary you pretend to be."

She hugged him from the side as he took a fistful of Floo Powder from the clay bowl by the fireplace. He closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace, letting his mind go blank and just enjoy the human contact.

"Thank you for coming."

That surprised him. "Thank you for - not turning me away? I don't think Ron was too happy to see me."

"Don't worry about it. Thank you for coming to me." She kissed him on the cheek and then slipped out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with the flickering flames of the fireplace.

It wasn't until he was sitting in a chair in the sitting room, ignoring the book in his lap, that he realised he was trying to summon forth the feeling of her hand on his, the brush of her lips against his cheek. He fancied he could still feel it, the whispering brushed-velvet feeling of skin on skin. Unbidden, his mind recalled the wonder he'd felt when it had struck him how well she knew him, listing off all the little things he never thought anyone paid attention to. A warm twinge flickered to life in his chest at the thought.

"Oh, no," he said aloud to himself, the tiny feather of emotion washed out by sudden despair. "No, no, no, no, _no_. You stop that."

His brain refused to listen. He stood up and wandered aimlessly through the house for a few minutes before he found himself under the showerhead, the water as hot as he could stand, forehead pressed against the wall of the shower.

"You have good taste," he admitted to himself. "Except for the part about her being someone else's wife."


	6. Justified

The late August day had been scorching hot, but the kitchen, at least, was cool; Hermione was willing to bet that the bedrooms upstairs did not have the same advantage. The tile felt wonderful beneath her bare feet and a stray breeze, though warm from having spent the day in the heat, was nonetheless welcome as she stared at the table in front of her in disbelief.

"No. You did not just play 'conquest' across _two_ triple word scores."

"And the 'Q' is on a double letter." Neville sat back in his chair and took a sip of tea with a smug victorious expression on his face. "I think I'll let you tot that up for me."

"I think I'll forfeit, is what I'll do," Hermione shot back, the sums in her head climbing ridiculously high for a single play. "That's worth more points than I've ever scored in an entire game."

"I told you I was better than anyone you'd ever played," Neville gloated. "But no, you didn't want to listen. Don't forget my extra fifty points for using all seven of my tiles."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, secretly delighted at how tranquil he seemed tonight. There was still tension in the lines around his eyes, and he was still far too pale and had hardly touched the chicken and potatoes she'd brought, but he was smiling. And laughing, now, at her childish retort. If she could just keep him like this for one more hour...

"Do you really forfeit? I'm sure you can make up... three hundred and eleven points, isn't it? I'm only leading by four hundred some odd, you might catch me." Neville took off his reading glasses, presumably so she could see the roguish wink better. She was surprised he'd worn them, but then she supposed there was little point in him hiding them from her any longer.

She sat back and crossed her arms. "You're not a very good braggart," she tried to say, but it was impossible to suppress her grin, which quite spoilt the effect.

"I don't get the chance very often. Games don't always go this well," Neville admitted, folding his glasses shut. "And I haven't had anyone to play with for ages. People usually play one game with me and swear off it forever."

"I can see why. Yes, I forfeit. I need to retain some sort of dignity." With a wave of her wand, the game was swept back into its box. "I don't think we have time for another."

Neville's face fell, almost imperceptibly. "Are you certain?" He checked his watch. "Oh, please. Forty-five minutes is plenty of time for me to trounce you again."

Hermione could not help but shake her head and laugh. "You're really very proud of that, aren't you?"

"Three hundred and eleven points, Hermione. I'd much rather my mind be occupied with that than with the other thing." Once again a cloud seemed to pass over his face.

"I don't blame you," Hermione said quickly. She hurriedly tried to find some other topic to talk about, but it looked to be too late; Neville's eyes already looked devastatingly far away. "At least we know what to expect this time," she said in a soft, almost desperate voice. "And we know the Wolfsbane works."

"Mmm," Neville said in a distant affirmative tone before seeming to come back to himself and looking up. "The kids aren't getting it, you know. Wolfsbane potion, I mean."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "What?"

"They all refused it the first time around. I don't think they understood what it was. I... tried to get Evan to take it, this time. But he's convinced that the werewolf... that it's a part of him. That the full moon just exaggerates it, gives it form." The wood grain on the table must have been fascinating, because Neville was studying it intently. "I have to wonder if he's right, and that's why I -"

"No," Hermione interrupted firmly. "He's not right. Lycanthropy's been studied by Transfigurational Theorists for centuries; it's practically the definition of involuntary finite planar shift."

"I have no idea what you just said," Neville said after a moment, with a very small crooked smile. "But it sounded like you were trying to be reassuring."

"I was." Hermione took a deep breath, trying to recall the chapter she'd read. "It basically means that -" She halted when Neville held up a hand.

"Don't. Keeping me out of N.E.W.T. Transfiguration was the best thing McGonagall ever did for me. I'm going to assume that it's some incredibly comforting thing that means I'm not going to lose my mind and forget about my humanity, despite all the evidence I have to the contrary." He licked his lips. "You've seen the kids."

Hermione winced. She had seen them, had in fact been called in by former colleagues to consult as to whether they were still completely human or should be classified as semi-reasoning magical beasts. She'd been furious at the notion until she had met them - now she wasn't so sure. "They were raised that way," she said after too long a pause. "They don't know anything else. You do. And Evan does. And - you remember Professor Lupin."

Neville's nod was thoughtful, pensive. "I wish he was still alive. I - he'd be so..."

"I know. I've thought the same thing a hundred times." Hermione took a long sip of water as silence settled around them like a shroud.

"It's not any easier," Neville said suddenly, breaking her out of her reverie. "Even knowing what's coming. In fact, it's worse, knowing what's coming. I..." he broke off in a shudder.

Hermione reached out and took one of his hands. "Do... you want to talk about it?"

"No." His hand was shaking. "No, I... but I should. You should know at least..." He looked up, eyes piercing in their intensity. "The potion doesn't just give me control. I have to fight for it. And then I have to hold onto it, every single second." He brought his cup up to his lips before looking down and realising he'd already emptied it. "I only went to sleep last time because..._ it_... did."

"So I wasn't actually calming you down at all," Hermione began, but Neville interrupted.

" Of course you were. You were giving me something to focus on that wasn't that _thing_." He shuddered again, and Hermione clasped his hand more tightly. "I don't know how they do it. The people who have been werewolves for years, I mean. Completely alone, with no one to lean on..."

Hermione did not have the heart to tell him that the suicide rate for werewolves was nearly one in three. It was not the sort of thing he needed to hear, and some tiny, dark part of her was terrified of giving him any ideas. "You have someone to lean on, so you don't need to worry about it. Besides," she continued, with a false cheer, "I imagine, after a while, it'll become routine. Pick up the eggs and cheese, put out the cat, spend the night as a werewolf, and then do the laundry in the morning."

That earned a snort of a laugh from Neville. "Right. Becoming a hairy, drooling monster once a month will become routine."

"You're furry, not hairy," Hermione corrected, "and as far as I could tell, you don't drool."

"Fur and hair are the same thing," Neville protested.

"So are hair and hedgehog quills, but you don't use those words interchangeably," Hermione pointed out triumphantly. "You, my friend, have tawny_ fur_ when you transform. Not hair. And it's a little browner around your ears and muzzle. It's quite fetching, really."

Neville stared, and appeared to be at a complete loss for words. It slowly dawned on Hermione that this was the first time she'd matter-of-factly stated anything about him actually being in werewolf form. They'd spoken about it in abstract terms, alluding and implying rather than talking about it outright, as though if they never actually said it they could avoid the reality of it.

Neville looked down at the hand that Hermione was holding and licked his lips. "So... tawny. Not sure what that colour is, exactly. Having trouble getting a good picture of what... what I look like."

Hermione took a breath. "Bit like your hair colour, really. More like your facial hair, when you don't shave. Darker, maybe, and more ginger. It's hard to tell in lamplight, though."

"And?" The intensity of his voice made Hermione want to swallow.

"And... well, hazel eyes. Like yours, but obviously more... canine. And you stay the same size, conservation of mass and all that, which means you make a bloody big werewolf." He laughed slightly at that. "Not that I'm saying you're big," Hermione added quickly, flushing slightly, "just that - well - an eleven stone human is normal-sized, but an eleven stone wolf is gigantic."

"Eerily accurate estimation, there," Neville said, leaning back in his chair with an odd smile that flickered and faded. "I think..." he cleared his throat. "I think I'd like to see tonight."

"You mean... like with a mirror?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him uncertainly. "Are you positive?"

Shrugging, Neville stood. "I've got to accept it sooner or later, right? What's the use in hiding from it?"

"And you insist you're not brave." Hermione stood as well. "Let me get a pitcher of water. I'm not making the same mistake twice." She hesitated. "That's... assuming you want me to read to you again."

"Of all the possible things that could happen to me tonight, I think that you reading to me is the best one." Neville's smile was a little tremulous. "Pitchers are in the cabinet by the window. I'll meet you upstairs."

* * *

Hermione's hand was on the knob to the bedroom they'd used last time when Neville's voice sounded from down the hall. "Not that one." She looked up to see Neville stepping into the hallway from another room. "There's no mirror in that one, and I kind of want to keep it as it is."

Nodding, Hermione approached the doorway of the room Neville was indicating and stepped inside - and stopped in her tracks.

"It's a bit ostentatious, I know," Neville said from behind her. "But Gran insisted."

"I think it looks fantastic," Hermione said, her eyes scanning the wall to her right, upon which hung plaques and photographs and framed certificates. She immediately recognised the certificate that had accompanied the Award for Special Services to the School - she and Ron had identical ones - as well as the Order of Merlin, First Class medallion that hung next to the framed photograph of Shacklebolt shaking a very bashful, younger Neville's hand. And in the very centre, in a tastefully simple black frame, hung the ornate document certifying that Neville Augustus Longbottom had completed the requisite three years of Auror training and was qualified to join the ranks of the Aurors.

"If she had to build a shrine to me, I'd have preferred it not be in my bedroom," Neville said wryly, but he could not disguise the note of pride in his voice. "At least it's not the sitting room. Seeing them all like this makes me seem far more impressive than I really am."

Hermione was about to say something about that, but a plaque in the upper corner caught her eye, and she spun around with one eyebrow raised in amusement. "'Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile', Neville?"

Neville coughed and the tips of his ears turned bright red. "Gran insisted," he said weakly. "'All the awards,' she said." He chuckled at Hermione's disbelieving laugh. "What, you don't think I have a nice smile?"

"Your smile is lovely. You should smile more often." Hermione grinned cheekily as she turned back to the wall. "Maybe you'll get more awards for it."

"Quiet, you." The tug on her braid was a playful one, but it made Hermione jump and spin around again nonetheless. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself." His grin was sheepish, but it held more mirth than she could remember seeing on his face in a long time.

"What has got into you tonight?" Hermione laughed. She waved a hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know." She did, actually. It was rare to see him so relaxed on any occasion; she could almost believe that he was honestly happy. A truly happy Neville was something she hadn't seen in years.

"Nothing. It's nothing." Was it her imagination, or did his smile falter with the words? He had turned away toward the bed against the opposite wall and she couldn't tell. "I was smart this time. Brought some food up. You must have been starving last time."

"A bit," Hermione admitted, following him to the bed and sitting on the edge, setting the water pitcher on the bedside table. He was unpacking a bag at the foot of it; from it he drew the well-worn book of fairy tales, a dressing gown, a packet of pretzels, a bottle of Butterbeer, and a bowl before folding it and tucking it under the bed. She reached out to touch the dressing gown lightly. "Decided you didn't like the sheet?"

"I don't look good in white. Washes me out," Neville replied easily.

"And we all know you have to look your best at all times." Hermione picked up the bowl. "What's this for?"

There was no mistaking it; this time his smile did fall a measurable amount. "I, er. I got thirsty last time."

Hermione immediately felt like five distinct kinds of idiot as she saw colour creep up the back of Neville's neck. He hid the shame well. She reached out to touch his upper arm. "Hey. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know that. Doesn't mean I..." Neville shook his head. "Never mind. Time?"

Hermione glanced at her watch, noting that Neville had already removed his. "Eight."

Nodding, Neville cast a wary glance at the claw-foot mirror in the corner of the room. "Right." He drew a deep breath. "Almost show time."

"We don't have to do this in here," Hermione said haltingly. "We can -"

"I have to face it, Hermione." Neville sounded very tired. "Besides," he added, attempting a grin, "I want to see if I really am a pretty werewolf."

Hermione couldn't think of anything to say to that. Neville leaned back on his elbows on the bed, staring off into nothing.

"You don't have to watch. If - if it bothers you."

Hermione looked over; Neville was still staring determinedly at nothing. "I - of course it bothers me. It's horrible. And..." She seemed to be running out of words frequently this evening. "I promised I'd be here for you. I'm not going to duck out."

"And you insist you're not brave." Neville said, echoing her words from earlier. He shuddered. "One thing's for certain, I'm not watching that in the mirror."

There was an extended pause, until Hermione's curiosity won out over her judgement. "What - what does it feel like?"

Neville let out a long sigh through his nose. "Have you ever dislocated something? A shoulder, maybe?" Hermione shook her head. "Broken a bone? No? How about a muscle cramp?" Hermione nodded at that. "Right. Like that, but sharper. All over. And my bones feel... loose. Disconnected. Horribly wrong. And it's almost like... like that moment just before you lose consciousness, and you have the tunnel vision and you feel like your head's wrapped in ten inches of wax, and sound is stretched out and strange, and everything is swimming before your eyes..." He swallowed. "But you feel everything. And you feel things... moving. Shifting." He shuddered again. "Worse than the Cruciatus Curse. At least the Cruciatus eventually gets dull, like your body gets used to the pain."

Hermione shifted. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Don't be. It... helps. To put words to it. Like it tames it." He heaved another sigh, and it almost seemed as though he aged several years before her eyes. "I suppose it's time to start getting ready." She nodded wordlessly.

There was none of the playful banter this time. Neville unbuttoned his shirt with automatic movements, his mind obviously somewhere far from this room, and handed it to her to fold without a word to. He did not hesitate as he unzipped his jeans and pulled both them and his pants down to his ankles and handed those off as well, turning his back to her as he sank into a crouch on the floor.

And so they waited.

The seconds ticked by painfully slowly, stretching cruelly. It took a moment before Hermione noticed Neville's shoulders shaking, and she slipped off the bed to kneel next to him.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, rubbing his back lightly, palm brushing against his bare skin. "You've done this. You're a pro."

Neville nodded, drawing a breath that almost sounded like a gasp or a sob. His eyes were shut tightly, his face drawn into a grimace as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

Hermione's watch chimed, and she felt every muscle under her hand tense. She jerked her hand away as though she had laid it upon something hot.

She'd calculated it much more precisely this time; it wasn't more than five seconds before Neville seized, his held breath forced from his lungs in a strangled groan.

"Don't fight it," she said in a macabre echo of the month before. "You can't fight it. Just let it happen." She very hesitantly returned her hand to his back, steeling herself against what she might feel - the rippling of muscles reshaping themselves beneath the skin? The sprouting of fur? She didn't know, but Neville deserved someone who wouldn't shy away from it, who wouldn't curl in a ball and tremble in fear as she had before.

"Get - away." It was a grunt, the words barely understandable. Hermione jumped, the adrenaline coursing through her body more than enough to enhance her startled reaction to something far more pronounced. "I can't -"

_He has to fight for control_, a detached, dry part of her mind reminded her. _He might not fully be himself when the transformation's complete_. She stood and backed away until the backs of her knees hit the bed, but she didn't let herself sit. She wasn't going to hide her face this time. He needed someone who could share this with him, as much as she was able.

She didn't know if it was a trick of the mind or Neville's acceptance of what was happening, but from beginning to end, it seemed to go much more quickly. Hermione was ashamed to admit that she had diverted her eyes at a particularly horrid bit, as Neville's spine had elongated to accommodate for a tail, and she'd outright closed her eyes as the fur began to sprout like Quickgrass, but by 8:09 and thirty seconds, a fully-formed werewolf was panting before her.

Cautiously, she stepped forward. "N-Neville?" she asked.

Neville did not appear to respond, but after a moment he lifted his head and, very slowly, padded toward the mirror.

The flinch as Neville first saw his reflection was unmistakable. Hermione's heart ached as his ears laid flat against his head and he stared, the tremble growing more pronounced as the seconds ticked past. His hackles raised and lowered, as though he were unsure of what his reaction should be, until he finally turned from the mirror and launched himself at Hermione.

She was ready, kneeling and with open arms that she wrapped firmly about him, holding him tightly as he whimpered almost soundlessly.

"It's okay. You're still you," she whispered fiercely. "You're still you, Neville. You're still you. Just different. It doesn't change who you are. You're still you."

She realised she was once again stroking his fur, the soft fur behind his ears, and she stopped, slightly mortified. But after one frozen moment, he nosed her hand hesitantly.

She drew back slightly to look into his eyes. "You... you want me to... to keep going?"

He nodded, very slightly. If it was possible for a wolf to appear embarrassed, that would be what she would attribute to his expression.

She held him close again and ran her fingers along the silky fur, trying to ignore the part of her that insisted that this was vastly inappropriate. He was a wolf, she reasoned, at least as far as instincts were concerned, otherwise he'd never be able to manage all four legs as seamlessly as he had. So that meant that the things that would feel nice and comforting to a wolf would also apply. It wasn't as though she was scratching the human Neville behind the ears. That would be ridiculous.

It was difficult to tell how long they stayed that way before Neville stopped trembling and pulled away. Hermione nodded and rose to her feet, walking back over to the bed and picking up the worn book before settling herself down beneath the covers.

With a glance at Neville, who had laid down with his head upon his forepaws and his eyes upon her, she began to read.

* * *

Hermione set her bag down in the hallway, cocking her head at the sound of Rose laughing upstairs. It was well past eight in the morning; Ron should have been at the shop and Rose at The Burrow by now.

"Ron?" she called as she started up the stairs. "Are you still home?"

"I decided to take a day off," came Ron's response from Rose's room. Hermione pushed open the door to find Ron seated upon the floor with Rose, who was resolutely watching her father stack some blocks into a precarious tower, then reaching out to knock them over with a serious face that melted into giggles as the blocks tumbled down. "Rose doesn't approve of my towers."

"They don't look very structurally sound." She reached down to stroke Ron's hair. "You'll need a haircut soon. This is getting unruly."

"I'll have Mum do it next week sometime. You look tired." His voice sounded oddly neutral, though Hermione could not put her finger on what exactly was different.

"There wasn't much chance to sleep last night," she hedged.

"Ah." Ron placed a block atop another; Rose clapped in appreciation. "I read the article you left me on the new trend of ritual magic. Interesting. Not something I thought you'd like. Seems a lot like Divination, a lot of 'trusting to the flows of natural magic' and that lot."

Hermione shrugged, the sour feeling of guilt in her stomach pulsing. "It's a favour to a friend. And it is fascinating, in its own way."

"I see." Ron looked very hard at the wooden block he was holding; it took a moment before Hermione realised his fingers were wrapped around it so tightly that his knuckles were white."So how's Neville? He not get much sleep either?"

The bland sour feeling solidified into horrible, writhing knot and Hermione's mouth went dry. She swallowed. "I – how -" And then it all made sense. "The clock." One of their wedding presents had been a Weasley clock of their very own, with various improvements - including the ability to report which Floo Network grate any family member was nearest to at the time. Doubtless, Ron had tapped her hand on the clock last night to find out where she was - out of curiosity or suspicion, she didn't know, and right now the distinction was irrelevant.

"The clock," Ron confirmed, not relinquishing his hold on the block. One of his knuckles popped. "How long, Hermione?"

"I can explain - it's not at all like what -"

"Damn right you're going to explain. At length." Ron appeared to notice that the corners of the block were pressing into the heel of his hand hard enough to bruise; he very precisely set the block atop another on the tower.

Hermione's mind raced, a high whine kindling in her ears. She imagined that she could feel her pulse pounding in her temples; that was racing, too, and she felt very flushed and warm. "I was at Neville's. But we weren't - I'm not sleeping with him. I promise. I - can't tell you what -"

"Of course you can't tell me." Ron's voice had gone dangerously flat, and Rose looked back and forth between her parents with that special oblivious empathy that all small children have. "I'm just your husband. Why do I have any right to know where my wife gets off to - or who she gets off with, for that matter?"

"Not in front of Rose, please," Hermione said, practically begging. "We've - we've been so good about not fighting in front of her lately -"

"Who says we're fighting?" The pointed coolness was more horrible than if he'd been shouting. "We're having a nice, calm discussion about what you're doing with Neville behind my back."

"I'm not doing anything with Neville behind your back -"

"No, because you're barely even bothering to make sure my back is turned!" Ron spat. He lurched to his feet, and from this angle, Hermione could see the blue shadows beneath his eyes; he apparently had not slept either. "Harry says you're meeting him for lunch practically every day. With Rose. You're taking our _daughter _on your little _trysts_. I can't even..."

"They aren't trysts. I'm not doing anything with him, I swear!" Hermione stooped to pick up Rose, who had started to whimper at the tension in the room. "I can't tell you because I promised I wouldn't, but it's not... you're my _husband_, Ron. I wouldn't -"

"Then treat me like your husband! Don't keep secrets from me! Don't lie to me!" Ron's shoulders were shaking with the effort of not shouting. Hermione swallowed and her eyes darted about the room as she tried to summon words - any words, anything except what she'd promised she wouldn't say...

"I – Ron, you read in the paper how Neville's partner was killed, just before he came to see me that night," she said desperately, tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. "You know what potion I've been brewing for the past two months. And last night was a full moon." She watched Ron's face carefully. "Please don't make me say it plainly," she whispered. "I promised him I wouldn't tell a soul."

Ron looked as though the breath had been knocked out of him, the colour draining from his face. "You're not saying... you can't mean..."

"Last night, we played board games until the moon came up," Hermione said in a shaky voice. "And then I read him fairy tales until he was too exhausted to stay awake. This morning I made sure he ate, because he – he never eats enough the week before, the potion puts his stomach off -"

"You said the potion was for the hospital." Much of the heat was gone from Ron's voice, and the accusation was almost nonexistent.

"It is... whatever he doesn't use." Hermione sniffed and shifted Rose on her hip; their daughter was being oddly quiet, whimpering instead of wailing as she usually did when her parents fought. "He's terrified, Ron. He doesn't want anyone to know. I wanted to tell you. I was going to ask him if I could tell you, once he was - once he got more comfortable with it."

Ron huffed a heavy sigh, his brows knitted in disbelief. "He's really... he's a werewolf."

"Yes."

"And you're not..."

"Heavens no. We're friends. Good friends - better now, and closer because of... but friends. Only friends." Hermione reached out hesitantly to take her husband's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I knew not telling you was wrong, but I..."

"You had a promise to keep," Ron said thickly, and Hermione was startled to see him reach up and wipe an eye. "God, I thought you were - I don't know. Revenge. Getting back at me for Emily."

"Emily?" The name still felt stiff on her tongue, even now, years later. "Ron, that was ages ago. And we'd just called off the engagement, so technically you weren't doing anything wrong -"

"Like hell I wasn't." Ron gave a sour little laugh. "I was so sure that you... that this was the other shoe dropping. That you'd decided turnabout is fair play."

"Revenge has no place in a marriage, and you need to forgive yourself for that." Hermione put Rose back down on the floor; she was getting so heavy. "I forgave you almost as soon as it happened."

"If only it was that easy." Ron sighed again, raking a hand through his hair. "You're right. It is getting a bit shaggy."

"Ron, I'm sorry," Hermione whispered. "Lying doesn't have any place in a marriage either, and I did, and - I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well." Shrugging, Ron stepped forward and enveloped Hermione in his arms. Hermione closed her eyes and leaned against his solid, comforting frame. They swayed together for a long moment before he spoke again. "What can I do?"

"What?" Hermione pulled away in disbelief. Ron shrugged again.

"He's my friend too. What can I do? How can I help?"

It took supreme effort of will to not let her jaw drop. "Not five minutes ago you were ready to - to eviscerate him."

"I thought he'd made me lose you." Ron reached out and ran his thumb across her cheek, wiping away an errant tear. "I was wrong. And he's my friend. What can I do to help?"

Hermione let out a sigh and wondered why it hadn't come out as a sob. "I need to tell him first. Let him know that you know." The pit of her stomach seized. "He's not going to like it."

"He'll get over it." Ron wrapped his arms around her again and squeezed, almost hard enough to hurt. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I thought for even a second that -"

"You were justified," Hermione whispered back. "I lied."

"I'm still sorry."

"So am I."

"Fine. We're both sorry. I'll make breakfast. Downstairs?"

Hermione could hear the peace offering in the suggestion. "All right." She bent to pick up Rose again, who futilely reached out in an effort to grab a block to bring along with her. She looked over her daughter's downy head at her husband. "I love you."

"I know. I love you too."

The words were said almost defiantly. Hermione stored the concern at that away in the same corner of her brain where she had stored her conviction that she would fail an exam, the absolutely surety that this pregnancy would fail like all the others. She shut it up and locked it away to be examined at her own leisure, far away from anyone who could see any stray tears.


	7. Necessary Conversation

"You told him."

Hermione almost winced. He didn't _sound _angry, but that was the way Neville was; the angrier he got, the calmer he sounded. "I had to. I should have told him from the start. I never should have lied to him for so long." She didn't flinch when Neville stood up and went to look out the window, turning his back to her, but she felt like it. "I'm sorry I made a promise I couldn't keep."

"But not sorry you told him."

"He's my husband, Neville. He deserves better than lies."

Neville let out a long, slow sigh. "Fine. It's done. Whatever. Nothing I can do about it now except damage control."

Perhaps it was lack of sleep that made the comment rub her the wrong way. "And why exactly does my husband knowing where and why I disappear every month require 'damage control'?"

"Your husband can't keep a secret to save his life," Neville shot back over his shoulder, frustration cutting the edges of his words crisply. "What makes you think he'd be able to keep one to save mine?"

"He's never had to keep one of this magnitude before. Maybe you should give him a chance before giving him up as a lost cause." Hermione folded her arms in front of her and glared at Neville's back. "He's not an idiot. He knows how important it is to stay quiet about it." Neville did not answer. "He's your friend. Trust him."

"Like he trusted you?"

Hermione blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Like he - Neville, you know how bad it looked. He had every reason to think that there was something dodgy going on."

"He could have asked, instead of jumping to conclusions. Thinking you'd do that to him. Thinking_ I'd_ do that to him."

Something in his voice sparked a suspicion in the back of her mind. "You're not upset because I told him. You're upset because of why I had to tell him - because he thought we were together last night."

Neville did not answer immediately. "I'm surprised you're not more upset about it," he said finally, turning around. "If I had a wife, and she accused me of cheating... there'd be a lot of broken crockery."

Hermione felt her brow furrow. "Why would I be angry about that? I lied to him about where I was going, and he came to the most logical conclusion."

"And the most logical conclusion was that you were cheating?" Neville shook his head. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"It's... complicated." The teacup in front of her was empty, a remnant of the night before that hadn't been tidied away; she absently considered refilling it to give her hands something to do. She looked up as Neville sat down across from her at the table.

"Am I complicating it more?"

"No," Hermione said quickly. "No, it's... things have always been complicated." She bit her lip, considering whether she wanted to continue. She didn't speak of it often; Ginny may be her best friend, but she was also Ron's sister, and therefore extraordinarily biased, as was Harry. A brief glance upward proved that Neville was watching her patiently, and she took a breath. "You know we got married when we did because of... " She could not find a delicate way to put it.

"Because you were pregnant," Neville said bluntly.

Hermione winced. "Yes and no. I mean, we would have ended up married anyway - we were mad for each other, and we still are - I mean, that's how I ended up pregnant in the first place, because even when we had broken off the engagement we couldn't stay away from each other. But that was why it happened then. And then I miscarried and was... in a bad place for a while." She couldn't stand it; she reached out to take hold of the teacup and began toying with it. "I wasn't sure if I wanted to be in that marriage because of Ron or because of the baby that we weren't having after all."

Even without looking up she could tell Neville was stricken. She kept her eyes resolutely on the teacup, not wanting to see that expression, see him rewriting everything he knew about her in his head.

"I was stupid enough to say something about it, too," she continued after a moment. "And so we did the only thing that made sense at the time, and tried to get pregnant again. And you know how that turned out."

"Right," Neville said a little distantly. "Because you introduced me to Cel - er, the midwife when Rose was born."

Hermione just nodded. "I'd say it made sense at the time, but we were grasping at straws because we didn't know what else to do. I know now that I want to be married to him, I'm thrilled to have a family with him, I love him, but... I think he still doubts whether I really want to be his wife."

She was studying the pattern on the teacup so intently that she felt a jolt of surprise when Neville spoke again. "Do you?"

"Of course I do." She set the cup down and looked up incredulously. "What kind of question is that?"

Neville shrugged. "An honest one. One I think you need to think about before answering."

"I don't need to think about it." Fiddling with the teacup wasn't going to be enough, not now, but getting up and pacing was out of the question. "A marriage isn't like a - a relationship, that you can just stop when things get hard. I know you're used to just splitting up when things get difficult but that's not how a marriage functions - it takes work and dedication and -"

"And you think I don't know that?" Neville's voice had gone flat and even again, and Hermione looked up, startled. "Hermione, every single relationship I've ever had - okay, maybe not every one, but most of them - I thought I was going to marry the girl. You might recall that _she_ always ended up walking out on _me_, in every case." He, too, looked as though he badly wanted to pace. "I may not have the luxury of knowing what it's like to be married, but I know that it takes more than just love. You and Ron love each other, plain as day, but -" He stopped abruptly and rested his chin on one hand, drumming his fingers against his upper lip as though he wanted to cover his mouth.

"But what?" Hermione challenged.

"Nothing. I'm shutting up before I say something stupid. Do you have to get back, or do you want tea?" Neville rose from the table abruptly.

"But what?" Her own voice had gone cold, and she stood as well.

"Let it go. Please. Tea?"

"No," Hermione said, "and no tea, either. But what, Neville?"

Letting out a long, frustrated sigh, Neville yanked open a cupboard and pulled out a clean cup. "You should go to a couples' therapist. Both of you. I may cost less per hour, but they're infinitely more qualified to deal with your problems." He jabbed his wand at the kettle on the stove, which promptly began steaming.

"Problems? We don't have..." Hermione let the words she was about to say die on her lips as Neville let out a single derisive laugh.

"Hermione, take it from me, the champion of relationships gone bad: the harder you try to convince yourself there aren't any problems, the worse they're going to get." He looked over his shoulder, and Hermione was certain that he looked more tired than he had a few moments ago. "I wouldn't wish that on you or Ron. Do what you have to do to make things better. And if that means letting me handle things on my own, well then..." he gave a half-hearted shrug.

It took a moment for Hermione to realise what he was saying. "What? No - Neville, he wants to help."

The tea kettle whistled as Neville turned in surprise. "He what?"

"He wants to help," Hermione repeated as Neville turned back around to quiet the kettle. Unable to see his face, it was impossible for Hermione to tell why he was being so silent.

"How," he said slowly, "can he possibly help?"

Hermione waited until Neville turned back around before continuing. "The shop can purchase Controlled Substances up to Category Four for the purposes of research and development. They're already purchasing Wolfsbane and Tangella and all the other reagents for other applications. No one would ever be able to trace it to you."

Rather than the pleased or grateful look Hermione had been expecting, Neville simply looked perplexed. "Why? He's risking his business license. And George's business license. And isn't George the one who does all the potions anyway? Wouldn't he need a reason as to why Ron needs those reagents, or were we going to hope he wouldn't cotton on?" He shook his head. "It sounds like it's a fantastic way to let it slip to more people that I'm a werewolf." He plunked the teapot of hot water onto the trivet rather heavily as he slumped into the chair next to Hermione.

Puzzled at his inexplicable sullenness, Hermione reached out to gently touch his arm. "Neville... you can't keep it a secret from everybody forever."

"I can try," he responded stubbornly.

Hermione sighed and lifted the teapot from the table. "We want to help, you know. We all would, if we all knew."

Neville nodded in thanks as Hermione poured water into his cup. "Why can't we just... keep it the way it is? Just you and me? And Ron now, I suppose, but..." He coughed as he added milk. "I'd rather he not be here next time. It's a - a private sort of thing."

He was being vague, but Hermione knew exactly what Neville was talking about. "I don't think he'd want to be here for that," she said slowly. "He's still having trouble coming to terms with the whole thing."

"Him and me both." Neville reached up to rub his eyes wearily.

"You should come to dinner," Hermione said gently. "We can all talk it out. And I can get some food into you." She levelled a stern look at him. "I know you haven't been eating."

It was obvious he wasn't going to bother refuting that. "I... no." He paused before letting his hands fall. "I don't think I can be civil to him right now. Not after what he accused you and me of."

She made an indelicate sound. "Then come and let him apologise. He does that very well." She reached out to squeeze his arm again. "You offered to go through this alone, if it would make things easier for me and Ron. Is it really so much harder to go through it with us both supporting you?"

Neville sighed heavily. "There are exactly four people who know about me. I know I can keep my mouth shut, and I know you can. Every additional person who knows terrifies me that much more."

"I know." Hermione rubbed his arm soothingly. "But give Ron a chance. Let him apologise, and we'll all figure out how to weather this together."

Closing his eyes, Neville sighed again, then opened them. "Six o'clock, then?" Hermione nodded; Neville echoed the motion. "Right." He gestured at the teacup in front of her. "Change your mind about the tea?"

Hermione glanced down. She'd apparently poured water into her cup, as well, and the cloudy amber beverage suddenly looked delightful. "I suppose so."

"So you'll stay a while longer?" He sounded oddly hopeful. Hermione picked up her cup and took a sip in answer, and the first real smile she'd seen on his face this morning tugged at the corners of his mouth as he did the same.

* * *

The tension could have practically been cut with a knife. It wouldn't have to be a particularly sharp knife, either; it was brittle enough that a few good whacks with a teaspoon would do.

Hermione did not say anything, slicing a meatball in half. As much as it involved her, tonight was between Ron and Neville, and one of them needed to make the first move beyond the stilted greetings of earlier when Neville had emerged from the fireplace and stiffly accepted Ron's attempt at a brotherly embrace.

Neville was pushing his food around with his fork. Ron was shovelling his into his mouth mechanically, with none of the gusto he usually reserved for meals. If Hermione had been thinking properly, she'd have never have let Ron take Rose to The Burrow for the evening; at least her babbling would have provided some sort of backdrop aside from silverware scraping against china.

Several minutes later, Ron looked with a rather startled expression at his empty plate. "Good spaghetti, Hermione," he said faintly, as though realising that his excuse to stay silent had been exhausted.

"Yes," Neville agreed, though the portion that remained on his plate would have said otherwise, if Hermione didn't know any better.

"Thank you," Hermione replied simply. She looked significantly at Neville's plate and he sighed, bringing a bite of pasta to his mouth. She nodded in approval and he shot her a disdainful look before she turned her gaze to her husband.

Ron looked distinctly uncomfortable with his empty plate before him, and nearly full plates in front of Neville and Hermione. After glancing around for several moments, he took a deep breath. "So. Neville."

Neville jumped, looking up almost guiltily. "Yeah?"

"I'm... sorry that I thought..." He shifted. "You know."

Neville put down his fork and set his eyes on Ron with an even look. "I'm not certain I know what you're talking about."

Hermione rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, but Neville ignored her. Ron, if possible, looked even more discomfited.

"I thought you and Hermione were..." He made a gesture that implied absolutely nothing.

"Oh, just say it, Ron," Hermione snapped. "He wants to hear it."

Ron shot her an angry look before returning his gaze to Neville's obviously fake nonplussed face. "I thought you and my wife were having an affair. I didn't know the actual circumstances and I'm sorry." He did not sound even sullenly apologetic.

Neville stared for a moment. "I thought you said he was good at this."

It would be improper to clutch handfuls of her hair and scream. "Neville, just - stop it. Truly, just stop. He's sorry and he's embarrassed. You're angry and you're embarrassed. Get. Over. It. You two have no reason to not get on."

"He thought I slept with his wife," Neville said stiffly. "We've every reason to not get on."

"Oh for the love of -" She set her fork down forcefully on the table. "Neville, you're being boorish and childish, and you're not impressing anyone with your little alpha male display, so just let it be." He flinched visibly and his eyes took on a wounded cast, but between the two of them her patience was stretched agonisingly thin. "Ron, stop acting like he's a stranger sharpening his knives in front of you. He's insulted that you thought he'd do something to hurt you, that's all. Can we please behave like adults now?"

Ron's face took on an unmistakable sulky expression. "I will if he will."

Eyes darting between the two, Hermione had to bite back a particularly strong Stinging Hex. "I swear to God, I am going to strangle both of you."

"He thought I didn't respect your marriage!" Neville protested.

"He had every reason to!" Hermione retorted.

"Why are you defending him? Let him defend himself!" Neville pushed his plate away from him angrily. "I want to hear from him why he thought I'd do something like that to him - to both of you -"

"Because you've got a different bird every other month and I thought Hermione might be bored," Ron said in a dangerously low voice. "Because she lied about where she was last night and I'm paranoid. Because stars know that's what I've have done had I been in that same situation."

The last admission seemed to surprise even him. Neville's vitriol drained from him visibly as his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Glancing at Hermione, Ron cleared his throat in embarrassment.

"I was wrong. I didn't know what was going on. I wronged you and I wronged her and I'm sorry on both counts. I was scared for our marriage and our family. Now that I know the whole story, I hope I can make it up to you - to both of you."

The sudden silence at the end of this impromptu speech rang through the kitchen. Far from looking like a dejected child who had just been punished, Ron had drawn himself up in his chair - not arrogantly, but with the confidence of someone who'd said what he needed to say. Seeing he had struck his audience dumb, Ron coughed and reached out for his glass of wine, dropping his gaze to it as he took a sip.

Neville looked abashed. "I'm sorry I made things difficult," he said after a long moment of silence. "And that I gave Hermione no option but to lie to cover for me. Hermione, I'm... touched by the lengths you went to in order to keep it secret, but I'm sorry I made you go to them." His smile looked wan and obviously forced. "And every other month? I keep them for a bit longer than that."

The tension seemed to shatter at Ron's abrupt, surprised laugh. "Fair enough." He took another sip of wine, as though giving himself time to think. "So I hear you have a bit of a problem with full moons."

Dropping his eyes to his mostly full plate, Neville nodded. "A bit."

"Anything you can't handle?" Hermione recognised Ron's overly casual tone; he adopted it whenever he had no idea what to say.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Neville's mouth. "Not yet. But I'll let you know."

"You do that." Ron drained the last of his wine; Neville somehow looked happier and actually took another bite of his food. "Hermione, what's for pudding?"

Mouth slightly agape, Hermione looked between the two of them in disbelief. They looked back at her innocently. "Men," she finally said helplessly, shaking her head as she rose from her chair.

* * *

Whatever Molly had done with Rose had been remarkably effective; their daughter could barely keep her eyes open and had fallen asleep nearly as soon as Hermione had laid her down in the cot. As she climbed into bed next to Ron, she was fairly sure she would not be that far behind; last night's fitful doze at Neville's had been far from sufficient.

Ron stirred in his near-sleep and threw an arm over her to draw her near. It was too warm tonight for proper cuddling, but a few minutes before the shared body heat became unbearable would be nice, and Hermione shifted so her back pressed against Ron's front.

"'M sorry," Ron mumbled, his voice vibrating in his chest against her back.

A pang of guilt chimed in Hermione's chest. "Don't be. It was all a misunderstanding. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"No, not about that." He shifted, resting his chin atop her head. "I've been thinking about the comment I made to Neville. About how I thought you were bored and went to him, what I'd have done if I was in that situation."

"Oh." Hermione turned over and slipped her arm around his back in a half-embrace. "I'm not bored. I promise." She bit her lip. "But... what do you mean, 'if you were in that situation'? What situation? If you were bored with me, you mean?"

"What? No, no." There was a moment of hesitation. "I suspect Neville's a better person than me. If I were single, and been recently dumped, and a married friend I'd had a crush on for half my life came over bored with her marriage..." He coughed. "I, er - I know what I'd do."

There were a lot of very different pieces of information in that statement, and Hermione wasn't sure which one to address first. "You'd seduce a married woman?"

Ron shifted. "Well, no. But if I liked her, and had for a long time, I'd probably let her seduce me." He coughed again. "I'd, uh, have to really like her. And be really lonely. I'm really not making this sound any better, am I?"

"You're really not." She hesitated. "And you thought Neville would do that?"

"I..." Ron sounded trapped. "I don't know Neville like you do. But - well, I'd never known him to go so long without being in some sort of relationship, even if it's just a rebound, and he did have a pretty big thing for you in school -"

"That was ten years ago, though. More than that, now, I suppose. Either way, he got over that." Hermione shook her head. "Merlin, has it really been that long since we left school? Are we really that old?"

"It's half nine and we're exhausted. You tell me." Ron nuzzled the top of her head playfully. "And you never forget your first crush. You move on, maybe, but you never forget, and it doesn't take much to wake it up again." He gave her a squeeze. "I should know. I married mine."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." The threshold of uncomfortable warmth had been reached, and Hermione rolled to the cooler spot of the sheets on her side of the bed. "I'm still sorry for the way I behaved."

"And I'm still angry." Sprawling on his back with the sheet tangled around his waist, he twisted to reach over and pat her on the shoulder. "And that's how marriage is. You'll do stupid shit, and I'll get angry. And then I'll do stupid shit, and you'll get angry. Then we'll apologise and forgive and everything will be okay again for a while. That's how it works."

Hermione sighed at his pragmatic tone. "I know. That doesn't mean I don't still feel terrible."

"We'll both get over it. G'night. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Within minutes, Ron's breathing grew deep and even, but despite how numbingly tired she was, Hermione could not stop her thoughts racing long enough to fall asleep. For whatever reason, foremost in her mind was the reminder that, at one point, Neville _had_ been utterly besotted with her - and the realisation that given his current circumstances, it would be entirely too easy to accidentally revive those long-buried feelings.

She would have to be very careful. She trusted him, and after seeing how hurt he'd been that anyone would think he'd do such a thing, she was almost certain that he would never let himself behave in that way. But she'd also seen how terribly vulnerable and lost he'd been at the end of a long night and painful transformation. She'd felt how he clutched her as though she were the only thing tying him to reality. The ease with which that could turn into a cuddle - for the sake of comforting him - or a kiss -

The tiny thrill at that unexpected drowsy musing lurched Hermione into wakefulness, her eyes widening at the traitorous thought. No. She didn't actually think that. It had been nothing more than a stream of consciousness musing, naturally following the line of conversation that had been drifting in and out all day. She did not want to kiss him, or cuddle him, or be intimate with him in any way, shape, or form.

She spent several more minutes tamping that notion down, deep into her psyche, where it would hopefully never rear its head again.


End file.
